


The Crow on the Cradle

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-23
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: On October 2, 2005, Sam Winchester walked out of the apartment he shared with his girlfriend Jess in the middle of the night and didn't come back.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

_She’s not really awake, not really, but she can’t ignore the sound of a one-sided argument coming from the next room, because even when he’s trying to be quiet, his anger unsettles her. The bed is warm and comfortable, and her limbs are heavy, and anyway, he doesn’t sound like he needs her help, the heated whispering tailing off now. He comes back into the room, and she’s vaguely aware of him going to the window, but she’s ready to go back to sleep now, God, who the hell calls in the middle of the night anyway? She can’t quite do it, though, because the bed at her back’s still empty, and she still has that unsettled feeling like something’s not quite right.  
  
“Hey,” he says, and she must have dozed off because he’s standing in front of her now, expression unreadable in the dark. “I’ve got to go out for a minute. This guy I know needs help changing a tyre.”  
  
She wants to say _what, in the middle of the night? _And something about people who call their friends instead of mechanics, but she’s still mostly asleep and she can’t get her tongue to manage anything other than a few murmuring sounds. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, whispering that he’ll be back soon, and as she drifts off she hears the door close.  
  
In the morning, when she wakes up and the bed is empty except for her, she thinks he’s probably gone out to get breakfast. She waits in bed to ambush him and drag him back under the covers, until she gets bored. On the way to the shower, she notices something on the windowsill and stops—it’s powder, fine and white, and for a horrified moment she thinks it’s cocaine until she touches it and realises that it’s salt. It’s weird, but weird things like that sometimes happen in their apartment and she stopped mentioning them a while ago.  
  
It’s not until noon comes and goes and he still isn’t back that she starts to worry for real, but after that the worrying doesn’t stop._  
  
\----  
  
The phone call came at sixty miles an hour somewhere near Flagstaff on the fourth of October, 2005. Dad threw Dean a glance without taking his hands off the wheel, and Dean reached for his father’s phone without looking at the caller ID.  
  
“Mr. Winchester?”  
  
Dean was immediately suspicious. Not many people knew Dad’s real name, and few of those who did would be calling him mister. “Who wants to know?”  
  
There was a brief silence, then the voice – low and masculine and sort of official-sounding, the sort of voice that always made every smartass comment in the world pour out of Dean like he had no control over his own mouth – said, “This is Agent Robert Fells of the FBI. I’m looking for a Mr. John Winchester in connection with a missing persons case. Can you help me find John Winchester?”  
  
Dean quickly ran through all the possible scenarios. The missing person could be a victim in one of their cases – or it could be the perpetrator. Either way, while his instincts told him to slam the phone down immediately, the more rational side of his brain pointed out that it would be useful to know why the cops were on Dad’s trail and how they had got his name.  
  
“Who’s missing?” he asked.  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details of the case with anyone other than Mr. Winchester.” The voice sounded frustrated. Dean knew the feeling.  
  
“I’m Mr. Winchester.” Not a lie.  
  
There was another pause, and Dean knew the cop – Fells – was trying to decide whether to believe him. “Mr. Winchester, when was the last time you spoke to your son?”  
  
“I’m sitting in the car with him right now.” OK, that was definitely sort of a lie.  
  
“You’re with Sam now?” the cop said, and Dean felt his stomach drop into his feet.  
  
“Sam?” he said, and Dad threw him a sharp glance.   
  
“Your son, Sam Winchester. You say you’re with him?”  
  
“No,” Dean said, all of his manoeuvrings coming to a dead halt. “Is Sam OK?”  
  
Goddamn pause again, and it was all Dean could do not to reach through the phone and wring the freakin pen-pusher’s neck. “Sam’s girlfriend reported him missing this morning. When was the last time you spoke to him?”  
  
“Two years ago.” OK, that was wrong, because he was pretending to be Dad, and Dad had last spoken to Sam four years ago (and also, Dad was looking pretty damn antsy right now, and Dean knew he should give him the phone, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t).   
  
“Do you have any idea where he might go? Relatives, friends he might have gone to visit?”  
  
 _Relatives_. Sam’s only living relatives were sitting in a car in Arizona, barrelling north, and neither of them had seen Sam for years. “I don’t know.”  
  
The cop sighed. “Mr. Winchester, it would be very helpful if you would come in to Palo Alto and answer some questions.”  
  
Dean swallowed around the lump of ice in his throat. “We’ll be there in ten hours,” he said, and closed the phone.  
  
“Dean?” Dad said.  
  
“It’s Sam,” said Dean.  
  
They turned west at the next intersection.  
  
\----  
  
Palo Alto was not exactly unfamiliar to Dean, or to Dad either for that matter. They navigated by the landmarks of Sam's life without them: left at Sam's first-year dorm, carry on as far as the law library, the police station's next to the coffee shop he used to like to go to before he met the blonde girl. It felt almost like routine, like they were just passing through, checking up on Sam while they were in the area, except that they'd never both been there at the same time before.  
  
Oh yeah, and the fact that Sam was missing. That too.  
  
The police station was humming with a low level of activity, but everyone seemed to have better things to do than to go to the reception desk and find out what a couple of scruffy-looking guys with two-day stubble and dirt in the creases of their hands might want, that is, until Dad slammed his hand down hard enough on the desktop to sound like a rifle shot. Dean waited, standing slightly behind his father, following his lead.   
  
“Can I help you?” A young guy stepped up to the plate, not dressed in uniform, but maybe a cop anyway, Dean didn't know how these things worked. He looked shifty, nervous. Dean could understand that – sometimes, when Dad was really mad, Dean got that look himself.  
  
“We're here about Sam Winchester,” Dad said, quiet and calm like he was inquiring about the weather, but his voice cut through all the conversation in the room more effectively than a scream. “We received a phone call yesterday that he was missing.”  
  
The guy tapped away at a computer, the screen hidden from both Dean and Dad. Dean had the urge to lean over and type himself, because the guy was slow like he was freakin eighty and Dean could see from where he was standing that he kept spelling _Winchester_ wrong. Dean wasn't quite so sympathetic towards him any more – nervous or no, it was his _job_ for Christ's sake, his job to help them find Sam. Not that he'd be any use, but at least he could freakin _try_.  
  
“OK, sir, if you'll just take a seat, I'll tell Agent Fells that you're here,” the guy said finally, sweat sliding down the side of his neck, and Dad leaned forward and opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by a hoarse voice from behind them that seemed too loud and jagged even among the sounds of police business under way.  
  
“Agent Fells? Are you here for Sam? Have you seen him?”  
  
Dean turned to see a blonde girl—the one he'd seen Sam palling around with a lot, his girlfriend, must be—staring at him like he was the answer to all her prayers. Her face was puffy, eyes bloodshot, and she looked crumpled, like she'd been sleeping on the street. “Have you seen him?” she asked again, but it was obvious from her face, the way the hope was leaving it, that he didn’t even have to answer. Even so, he shook his head. _Not for years. Not for years._  
  
The girl seemed to shrink a little, and Dean realised she’d been standing on tiptoes for some reason, even though she was tall. She rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... I’ve been so worried, is all.”  
  
Dad stepped forward then, and Dean prepared himself to be the back-up in the interrogation he knew was coming, but then a guy in a sharp suit came striding out from somewhere and said, “John Winchester? Father of Sam Winchester?” and Dad was cut off, turning and nodding and ready to interrogate someone else, so he didn’t see the look of surprise and then recognition that crossed the blonde girl’s face, but Dean did, Dean saw it and he wondered what lay beneath it. He wondered about Sam and this girl, how serious Sam had been about her (how serious Sam _was_ ), how much he had told her. He looked back at her as he followed his father and the cop to an interview room, and he saw that she was watching him, too.  
  
\----  
  
“I told you, I last spoke to my son four years ago.”  
  
The air in the interview room was heavy, laden with something that Dean couldn’t quite identify, and when he breathed it in he felt the weight sink through to his stomach and press down like it was solid. Fells sat up straight, alert, every inch the concerned officer of the law trying to right a wrong or prevent an injustice, but there was something about the set of his shoulders and the way he kept asking Dad seemingly irrelevant questions that set Dean’s teeth on edge. He knew mistrust when he saw it; he’d had that look directed towards him often enough in the past.  
  
“And what about you?”  
  
Dean took a moment to register that Fells’ latest question was aimed at him. “Uh,” he started, and cleared his throat, annoyed with the slicked-back fed for putting him on the back foot, but more annoyed with himself for allowing himself to be put there, “two years. I haven’t spoken to Sam for two years.”  
  
“I see,” Fells said, writing something down, even though he had a tape recorder out on the table in front of them. “Did Sam ever try to contact either of you during the time of your estrangement?”  
  
 _Estrangement_. Dean had never thought of it like that. They weren’t _estranged_ , they were just working out a few kinks in their relationship. Nothing was final. It was just a temporary setback, that was all.  
  
Until now, anyway.  
  
“No,” said Dad, and Dean realised he had failed to answer the question. _Come on, Dean, pull yourself together_. He shook his head, and wondered again about the silent answer phone messages he sometimes got from unlisted numbers. Fells watched them and wrote something else down ( _fucker_ ), then leaned forward with that intent, sincere look that always means trouble, whether it’s a cop wearing it or your brother.  
  
“Mr. Winchester, you and your sons have a somewhat... colourful history. I see from Sam’s file that he spent most of his childhood moving around. How likely do you think it is that Sam simply got bored with his life here and decided to leave?”  
  
This question wasn’t addressed to Dean, but he answered it anyway, figuring maybe that would provide some kind of balance. “No way,” he said. “No freakin way.”  
  
\----  
  
She’s crying again when the doorbell rings. She keeps thinking she’s done crying, that she’s ready now to suck it up and start doing something constructive, but then she tries to think of something constructive to do without leaving the house ( _he might phone he might he might_ ), and she can never think of anything because she’s never really been that good at staying in, has always wanted to be out and about, and absurdly she thinks somehow that Sam, homebody Sam who adores their little apartment so much, would be able to find something useful to do in it if their situations were reversed, and of course that leads her straight back to crying.  
  
She wipes her eyes roughly on the back of her hand, determined to face the world with a straight back. She feels wrung out, dishrag-limp and angry at herself for being so weak, but no-one needs to know that except her (except when she catches a glimpse of her face as she passes the bathroom mirror, she thinks that anyone would be able to tell with one glance, and hates herself even more). As she reaches for the latch, she schools her features into what she hopes is a neutral expression and draws a deep breath.  
  
But then it’s him, and she forgets to look stoic, or even vaguely normal. She recognises him, sort of, from a photo she’s seen a couple of times, but it’s a bad picture, bad light, and he looks older now, the lines of his face harder, and he’s not smiling, so she supposes that was why she didn’t realise who he was when she first saw him in the police station. He doesn’t look like Sam, neither of them do, not the way she looks like her sister and mother enough that people can always tell at a glance they're family. She wonders if maybe it’s some kind of weird surface manifestation of the fact that, while she calls her mom twice every week, Sam never even talks _about_ his family, let alone _to_ them. Why would he look like people he doesn’t seem to want, who don’t seem to want him? Except that sometimes, when he’s tired or he thinks she isn’t paying attention, he lets something slip that makes her think that she’s wrong about something there, but she doesn’t know what.  
  
In any case, he’s there, and in her sudden confusion she forgets his name and stammers, standing there on her doorstep with tearstreaks on her face, trying to recall the name of her missing boyfriend’s brother. In the end, he saves her the trouble.  
  
“Dean Winchester,” he says, and sort of flashes her a smile that seems like it’s more habit than anything else. “Sam’s brother. We met at the cop shop earlier.”  
  
She steps back to let him in. “Jessica,” she says, and although she thinks it must already be obvious to him, she adds, “Sam’s girlfriend.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured,” Dean says, which isn’t _pleased to meet you_ and isn’t _how are you holding up_ or anything else like the sincere and sympathetic platitudes her friends and family had been coming out with, and she’s grateful. He brushes past her, striding towards the little table, and looks like he might sit down, but then turns sharply and starts looking around like he’s thinking of buying the place or something. “So you want to tell me what happened?”  
  
She feels her knees buckle, but she forces them to hold, because there’s only one person she’ll be weak in front of and he’s been missing for three days. “Sam’s gone,” she says, which is lame because Dean knows that of course, but he doesn’t snap at her, he just looks and waits, his fingers tapping against the doorframe, never still, never easy, and she doesn’t want to tell the story again, she’s told it a hundred times and it doesn’t get any easier, gets harder with every hour Sam is gone because every detail grows more significant and she’s terrified she might forget something, might have already forgotten the one thing that would help them find him.  
  
“They keep saying maybe he just left of his own accord,” she says, and she hears the catch in her own voice, but Dean doesn’t know her so maybe he doesn’t notice. A muscle tenses in his jaw, though, and his fingers stop tapping for just a second.  
  
“He didn’t,” Dean says, and it’s not a question, and she feels something relax inside her, knowing that this stranger who knows Sam better than she does is on her side. The police don’t listen when she talks, they ask her questions but they don’t care about the answers; Dean cares, she feels suddenly. Dean will help.  
  
“Can we go somewhere else?” she asks, because she's holding herself together by a thread and she doesn’t want to break in front of him, and she thinks the presence of strangers will help when he looks at her like that and she wants to let him take care of all her problems. He looks away, but nods, and so they go.  
  
\----  
  
They’re in a diner three blocks from the apartment—she suggested the coffee shop next door, but Dean had already stepped through the diner’s door and didn’t hear her—when she remembers how she used to wonder about Sam’s scars. For the first six months they were together, he used to insist she turn the light out before he got undressed, until she told him she could feel the scars on his skin and she didn’t care, and if he didn’t want to tell her where he got them that was OK, but she wanted to see him, all of him. She wondered, at first, but after a while she put it together with the way that Sam would change the subject every time his family came up, the way that he never went home for the holidays or got calls or cards from them on his birthday, and drew her own conclusions. Now she’s sitting across from Dean, though, she wonders again. Not that she knows anything about anything, but he doesn’t seem like he comes from an abusive home, seems too cocky, too comfortable in his own skin ( _not like Sam_ ). She wonders, briefly, if maybe he was a perpetrator rather than a victim. But right here and now, he’s here to help her, and she’s not too proud to accept.  
  
“He got a phone call,” she says, and she always starts with that because it’s the one thing she’s sure of, the shrill of the phone jolting her out of sleep and the muttered, heated conversation in the next room stopping her from sinking back fully into it. “It was the middle of the night, I don’t know when... two or three, maybe, still dark, anyway. He said...” she pauses here, trying to remember, like she has every time, because if she’s honest with herself she’s not sure exactly what he said and what she just dreamed, “a friend had a breakdown, I think. He said he was going to help them change a tyre.”  
  
“You think,” says Dean, and he’s watching her, and she never admitted to the police that she wasn’t sure, but Dean needs to know the whole truth, even if he judges her for it.  
  
“I was half asleep. I think he said that. He said he would be back soon.”  
  
“He go in a car?” Dean asks, and Jess shakes her head.  
  
“We don’t have one. They must have broken down nearby.” She swallows her coffee and refuses to grimace. Dean ordered his black, no sugar, and she did the same, even though she usually drinks it with more milk and cream than coffee. “He didn’t even get properly dressed,” she says, and she knows this not because she remembers, but because she’s been through his clothes to see what’s missing, which isn’t hard since he doesn’t have many in the first place. After half an hour or so of calculation, she decided he left in sweatpants, a t-shirt, a jacket and sneakers. She thinks he wasn’t even wearing socks. The police think he went of his own accord, but they’re wrong.  
  
Dean sips his coffee and doesn’t look like he’s holding back a grimace. Her gaze drifts out of the window, and then she remembers that she’s supposed to be at home because Sam might call, somehow she forgot in the surprise of Dean’s appearance, and she jumps to her feet so fast that she spills her own coffee all over Dean's lap and he curses violently.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and she’s not sure what it is she’s apologising for. “The phone,” she adds, and heads for the door, and she thinks he must think she’s insane, but he’s slamming some bills down on the table and following her, and she hasn’t broken yet.  
  
\----  
  
Dean climbed the stairs to Sam’s apartment for the second time that day and thought about all the times he’d watched the windows from across the street and wondered what it was like inside. He’d thought that one day he’d find out, one day he would have the courage to just walk up to the door and knock (or maybe break in in the middle of the night, that would freak Sam the hell out), but he’d waited too long, and the place wasn’t as cosy as he’d thought it would be anyway, like somehow there was something missing ( _which there was_ ). He knew he was going to have to take a proper look around, and wondered how Jessica would feel about it (not that she would have a choice, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier if she didn’t bitch and moan). He’d hoped that there would be something in Jessica’s story that the police would have overlooked but that would make it obvious to _him_ exactly what had happened, but she was frustratingly vague, and although he understood that she had been half asleep, it was all he could do not to shake her and yell at her to _remember better, goddammit_. He’d almost done it, too, and then he’d remembered the time back in early summer when he’d seen her come out of the apartment with Sam, tucked under Sam’s arm but clearly in control despite her height disadvantage, and the way Sam had looked at her, like she was the only thing in the world. He hadn’t been able to see her face then, but he saw it now, saw that the feeling was mutual, and he didn’t have the heart to push her. Sam was the only thing in her world, and he couldn’t fault her for that.  
  
She checked the messages as soon as she came in, frantic fingers ghosting over the machine, but there was nothing except someone named Jason saying he’d just heard and how sorry he was and he hoped they would find Sam soon ( _and who the hell are_ they?). Jessica looked like she might scream or pull the phone out of the wall, and Dean wondered what it would be like to have people who knew his business enough to call him with condolences on his missing brother. Then she picked up the phone and was dialling, and Dean recognised Sam’s cell number. He’d called it himself, a few times, but it always went to voice mail, and he figured she’d been doing the same thing.  
  
Except that after a moment or two, Jessica’s eyes widened and she looked at Dean and said, “Hello? Who is this?”  
  
Dean stepped forward, holding his hand out for the phone, but it slithered out of her hand and hit the floor, and she was covering her face, probably crying, fuck knew how he was going to deal with that, right now he had more important shit to worry about. He lunged down and grabbed the receiver.  
  
“Hello?” the voice at the other end was female, sounded confused. “Are you OK?”  
  
“Who is this,” Dean said, hearing the raw note in his voice.   
  
“Uh,” the woman sounded suddenly unsure, and Dean thought he’d probably frightened her, “my name’s Marianne. Do you know whose phone this is?”  
  
Dean leaned heavily against the wall. “It’s my brother’s. Where did you get it?”  
  
“I found it just now in the grass, I heard it ringing. I guess your brother must have dropped it, can I return it to him?”  
  
“Where are you?” Dean asked. “Where the _hell_ are you?”  
  
The woman was quiet for a minute, and Dean thought she was going to hang up ( _and it would be his stupid fault_ ) and said, “Please. My brother... we don’t know where he is.” Beside him, Jessica made a hiccuping noise and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.  
  
“Oh,” she said, sounding sympathetic. “I’m at a gas station on highway 59, outside Sonora.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Dean. “Leave the phone with the attendant, we’ll come by to pick it up.”  
  
“OK,” the woman said, and she started something like _I hope you find_ but Dean cut her off, dialling Dad’s number almost before he’d finished the call, and he looked down at Jessica where she sat on the floor, not crying like he’d thought, her face dry but still blotchy from earlier tears.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to find him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is gone for five days, and comes back empty-handed. _The phone’d been wiped clean_ , he says. _Nothing in the memory. No-one’d seen him, no-one’d seen anything._  
  
She feels her heart clench inside her. _Maybe the police will be able to get something from it_ , she says, and even she can hear the dull despair in her voice, because she’s been waiting, waiting for days for them to call and cursing herself because she never took Dean’s number, and they didn’t call ( _and neither did he_ ), and she was beginning to think they were just going to disappear ( _like Sam_ ) and she would be left forever wondering where they went, and then they turned up on her doorstep and she dared to let herself hope for just a moment.  
  
Dean shifts slightly and his eyes flick sideways to his father for an instant. _Yeah, maybe_.  
  
She invites them in, even though she still thinks John might be – probably is – the reason for Sam’s scars and his helpless look when she bought him a photo album on their three month anniversary. She doesn’t feel comfortable with him, his hard face and the intense way he looks at her, but she needs Dean, she needs to feel some connection to all the life Sam had that she could never touch, and she has the distinct feeling that she won’t get Dean without John.  
  
They sit awkwardly at the rickety kitchen table, and she starts to get out the good cups to make them coffee, but then remembers how they always sat wrong in Sam’s huge hands, like he was terrified of breaking them, and she reaches for the worn, stained old mugs instead.  
  
John takes his coffee black and practically stewed, like Dean, and she considers making hers the way she likes it, but she feels like it would make her look weak and contemptible somehow, so she takes hers the same way once again. She wonders why it is that Sam takes his coffee with pretty much every additive he can find, until sometimes it’s hard to even tell it’s coffee under all the foam and syrup; she wonders if Sam has anything in common with his family at all.  
  
“Have the police found anything new?” Dean asks, and although his words seem perfectly appropriate, she knows from the way John’s fingers twitch and Dean’s mouth quirks at the corner that it’s just a formality, that he knows already that there’s nothing to tell. She shrugs and clears her throat.  
  
“They say if he’d been... kidnapped there would have been a ransom demand by now.”  
  
Dean snorts, and even though that was her reaction too, because what kind of lame kidnapper would go for a penniless college student, it makes her angry. She feels like there’s something they’re not telling her, and that pisses her off more than anything, because _she’s_ the one who’s been sitting around here for five days going out of her mind and waiting for the phone to ring, _she’s_ the one who had to stay behind while they went to Sonora (even though she begged Dean to let her go), hell, _she’s_ the one who’s had to calm Sam down after his nightmares for the last three years, nightmares that he never talks about and that she has a sneaking suspicion that’s not so sneaking any more might have something to do with the man who’s sitting across from her now, watching her like he’s trying to see into her soul.  
  
“What were you doing?” she asks, and they stare at her, like they didn’t expect her to have any questions of her own.  
  
“What do you mean?” Dean asks.  
  
“You were gone nearly a week,” she says. _Sam’s been gone over a week, Jesus._ “Were you in Sonora all that time?” _Why the hell didn’t you call me?_  
  
Dean shifts in his seat again, but John remains absolutely still. “We were following up some leads,” he says, and she realises they’re the first words he’s addressed to her since they met.  
  
“Shouldn’t you leave that to the police?” she asks, and she feels like she’s treading on dangerous ground, like maybe she should be careful, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t _care_ , because there’s something they’re not telling her.  
  
Dean leans forward slightly. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes that mirror her own, and as he opens his mouth she knows without a shadow of doubt that he’s going to lie to her, and she thinks maybe she should never have invited him in in the first place.  
  
“We got some contacts at the Sonora PD,” he says. “We were just helping them out. With their inquiries.”  
  
She feels sick. John is still staring, he hasn’t moved a muscle, and she tries hard not to imagine the anger that that intensity could give birth to, tries not to imagine that anger directed against shy, gentle Sam.  
  
“Did you remember anything else? Anything?” Dean asks, and she wonders if they planned this, if Dean’s the one designated to speak to her, to gain her trust (maybe _oh God_ because they think she’ll be _attracted_ to him). If that is the plan, it’s backfiring – she trusts him less every moment.  
  
“No,” she says. She keeps trying desperately to cling on to the dreamlike memory of that night, but every day it slips further out of her grasp, until she can’t really be sure what the last words Sam said to her ( _most recent_ words, _most recent_ ) were any more. It feels like a betrayal, but she’s not sure who’s betraying who.  
  
“Mind if we take a look around?” says John, and he phrases it like a question, but he’s already getting to his feet, like he doesn’t need to give a reason, and she wants to tell him _no_ , she wants to tell him to get the hell out of her house, _their_ house, hers and Sam’s, because if Sam had ever wanted him there he would have asked him himself. She has the feeling if she says that, she’ll just discover that she’s not in control of anything any more, and she just clenches her jaw and glares at Dean as he mutters something about wanting to see if there are any clues she might have missed. There are no clues. She’s looked over the apartment fifty fucking times a day, and there are no clues. There’s nothing Sam left behind to tell her where ( _why_ ) he had gone.  
  
The two of them move in the same way – solid, determined, confident and graceful; of all those, Sam shared ( _shares_ ) only the latter. She watches Dean pause as he sees the framed photo of John and Sam’s mother (she can’t remember Sam’s mother’s name, and that’s a betrayal too), his fingers reaching out to touch the frame and then slipping past it at the last moment. In the bedroom, John calls out his son’s name like it’s an order, and Dean’s eyes catch hers for just an instant as he turns to go, and she sees an echo of that fear that made her trust him in the first place.  
  
“Did you put salt on the windowsill?” John asks, coming back into the room, and she stares because she’d forgotten the salt, had spent days racking her brain as to whether it might tell her something and in the end dismissed it. She almost cleaned it up four days ago, when she was vacuuming the apartment in a desperate bid to keep busy, but even though it’s just _salt_ , she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  
  
John is still staring. She shakes her head, and says, “It was there when I woke up the day Sam...” She doesn’t finish, and she knows she doesn’t need to, and she knows, too, that the salt _means_ something to John, and to Dean, too, Dean who’s come in behind his father, his jaw set and his eyes afraid.  
  
“What does it mean?” she asks, and John doesn’t move, but Dean’s face rearranges itself smoothly into indifference and he says  
  
“Guess it means you need to buy more salt.”  
  
The joke falls flat, and even Dean looks awkward after he makes it, like it’s a habit, like he did it without even thinking. It means something, though. She just can’t understand what.  
  
When they finally leave, she doesn’t invite them to come back (though she knows they will without invitation if they decide – if _John_ decides – it’s necessary). After they’re gone, she stares at the silent phone until she can’t see it any more because she’s crying too hard. Sam’s been gone over a week.  
  
Later, she finds out his address book is missing.  
  
\----  
  
Dean flicked through Sam’s address book while he waited for Dad to pay for the gas. It was neatly organised and alphabetised, with names, addresses, and numbers, all in Palo Alto – Sam didn’t have any friends from before. There were no entries under _Winchester_ , and Dean didn’t know why he was surprised.  
  
He felt like time was slipping through their fingers. They had wasted five days in Sonora, researching, interviewing, asking every question they could think of, but not one thing had come of it. They should have split their efforts, one of them in Palo Alto, one out on Highway 59, but neither of them had been willing to be left behind, and neither of them had been willing to risk being split if a real lead came up. They hadn’t been sure before that Sam’s disappearance was anything other than a normal kidnapping ( _normal kidnapping, Jesus Christ_ ), but they’d suspected, of course, and the salt on the windowsill at Sam’s apartment just confirmed their fears, confirmed the fear that stopped Dean from breathing if he even let himself think about it. Sam hadn’t been safe. They had let him go, and something had happened to him. He hadn’t been _safe_.  
  
Dad slid back into the car, talking on his cell. “No, I can’t,” he said (never _I’m sorry_ , John Winchester was never sorry for anything). “You’ll have to get someone else. I’m busy.” He closed the phone without saying goodbye, and Dean looked at him.  
  
“Who was that?”  
  
Dad shrugged. “Apparently there’s been some mysterious disappearances down in Jericho. Morgan heard I was in the area.” He looked back at Dean for a moment, then seemed to realise and said, “Nothing like Sammy. It’s bound to a road somehow.”  
  
Dean sighed and turned back to the address book. “What about the phone?”  
  
“Caleb says if there’s anything to tell, he’ll have it for us in a couple of days. You got somewhere to start?”  
  
Dean looked back down at the page he had open. There, where _Winchester_ would be if it had been in the book, was an entry for _Rebecca Warren_. Well, that was as good a place as any.  
  
\----  
  
Rebecca Warren turned out to be tall and blonde, and if Dean hadn’t been busy thinking about something else, he might have flirted with her; as it was, he just stepped inside when she offered and stood in the hallway, feeling awkward traipsing all over Sam’s life ( _Sam’s life without them_ ) like this.  
  
“I’m so sorry about Sam,” Rebecca said. “We’ve all been so worried. Has there been any news?”  
  
Dean shook his head, and Dad didn’t wait for them all to be sitting down before he started asking questions.  
  
“When was the last time you spoke to Sam?” he asked, and Rebecca looked a little taken aback at his abruptness.   
  
“Uh, I think... maybe three days before he went missing?” she said. “My brother spoke to him the day before, though. Zack,” she called, and a moment later a dark-haired man appeared. “This is Sam’s father and brother,” she said, and Zack stepped forward to shake their hands.  
  
“Did Sam seem to be acting odd to either of you the last time you spoke?” Dad asked, barely acknowledging Zack’s murmured condolences.  
  
The two exchanged a glance and shook their heads. “We already went through this with the police,” said Rebecca, and Dean fidgeted. It had been like this, just the two of them, for too long now, getting on for four years, but he still often found himself wishing for Sam’s sympathetic eyes and ability to understand people when they were in situations like this. He knew his own shortcomings: people didn’t make sense to him, not really, he didn’t get how they thought, how they might react to what he said, and his father didn’t either. Most of the time, Dad tried to tone it down. This was not one of those times.  
  
“Well, let’s go through it again,” he said now, making no apology.  
  
Zack looked annoyed, but Rebecca put a hand on his arm. “I just... I just talked to Sam about class, you know? He was gearing up to take his LSATs, he was pretty stressed, but he seemed normal. Happy. There would be no reason for him to just take off like that.”  
  
Dean felt his fists clench; the police had asked Sam’s friends the same questions, and clearly they had implied that Sam had just left because he wanted to. He wanted to smash in the faces of those smug cops who thought they had his brother all figured out.  
  
“What about you?” Dad asked.  
  
“The same,” Zack said. “We talked about how he was too busy to come out at the weekend. He was normal. He seemed normal.”  
  
Normal. That was what Sam had wanted to be. That was what his friends said he _had_ been. But _normal_ wasn’t _safe_ ; and whatever had happened to Sam in the middle of the night, Dean was pretty sure it hadn’t been _normal_.  
  
\----  
  
Becky comes to see her in the afternoon, and she isn’t sure she can bear it. She makes tea, and they sit on the bed and sip it, and Becky says _how are you holding up?_ and she wants to scream. She’s heard that question so many times now, and she wants to say _I’m not, Sam’s gone, Sam’s_ gone _and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, I’m not fucking holding up at all_. Instead, she stares into her tea, the fragments of tea leaf at the bottom looking like mysterious creatures in the peat-brown liquid, and doesn’t answer the question because she can’t bear to put on a brave face any more.  
  
Becky puts an arm around her shoulders and squeezes, tight. “It’s OK, Jess,” she says. “We all miss him.”  
  
She feels the tears coming, but she forces them back, even though Becky’s crying now. She loves Becky, loves all her friends, but she won’t cry in front of them, won’t cry in front of anyone but _him_. She makes that vow in the depths of her soul.  
  
When Becky’s done crying, she says “Sam’s family came to talk to us, to me and Zack.”  
  
She’s been sitting frozen over her cooling tea, but now she looks up. Becky smiles tearfully. “I didn’t even know he had a brother, you know?”  
  
She nods. “He didn’t talk about them much.”  
  
Becky wipes her face with the back of her hand. “They don’t look alike,” she says. “And his father’s kind of... scary.”  
  
She nods again. It’s true. It’s all true.  
  
\----  
  
She goes to the police station every day, in the morning. The day after she speaks to Becky, they tell her to stop coming back, and she feels herself falling into deep, tarry water. _There’s no evidence that this was anything other than a simple case of a guy who got tired of his life and decided to leave_ , Agent Fells says, and she wants to scratch his eyes out. _I’m going back to San Francisco tomorrow. Unless some more evidence appears, the officers on the case will be reassigned._  
  
She stares at him like he’s just told her the world’s about to end. _What about the phone?_ she asks. _What about the goddamn cell phone?_  
  
Fells looks at her like she’s not even there, like he’s back in his nice comfy office in Frisco already. _What phone?_ he asks, and that’s when she knows what the ultimate betrayal is.  
  
\----  
  
She asks them to meet her in the diner where she dropped coffee on Dean a week ago ( _Sam’s been gone eleven days_ ). She doesn’t want to leave the phone, but she doesn’t want to do this there, either, in the apartment she and Sam have made into their home, she doesn’t want them there any more. Dean arrives alone, saying John’ll be there shortly, and she’s glad, because she’s _so_ angry, _so_ angry, but she needs to ask him a question first.  
  
She doesn’t hesitate: social niceties are something that people whose world is still in one piece worry about. “Sam has scars,” she says. _Lots of scars_.  
  
“Oh yeah?” Dean raises an eyebrow, like it’s not what he expected her to say (and why would he expect that?).  
  
  
“Yeah,” she says, and she can play it as cool as he can, even though she wants to scream at him and slap that look off his face. “Where’d he get them?”  
  
Dean hesitates and she watches him carefully. She thinks she knows he’s going to lie, but she wants to give him this one last chance, for Sam’s sake.  
  
“Didn’t Sam tell you?” he asks, too casually, and she feels the cauldron of rage within her begin to seethe.  
  
“No,” she says, and drinks her coffee (black and stewed, goddammit) to hide the clenched muscles in her jaw.  
  
Dean smiles broadly, what she’s coming to think of as his _lying smile_. “Car accident,” he says. “Sam was pretty banged up, but all’s well that end’s well, right?”  
  
 _But it didn’t end well. It hasn’t ended well. It’s ended fucking horrifically._  
  
She knows he’s lying. Sam didn’t let her see his scars for six months, but even then, some were still angry and red while others were faded and white. He’s lying. He’s been lying to her all along.  
  
John walks into the diner, and she stands up.  
  
“How dare you,” she says. “How dare you come here.”  
  
Dean’s standing up too, now, looking confused. “Jessica,” he says, “you _asked_ us to come here.”  
  
She’s not listening. She’s not looking at Dean ( _because she_ trusted _him, she can’t bear to look at him_ ), she’s looking at John, who returns her gaze with that same unflappable intensity.   
  
“You never gave the police the phone,” she says. “That’s _evidence_. That could help them find Sam. They stopped fucking _looking_ for him.”  
  
Dean glances back at John, but John doesn’t move. “They were never going to find him,” he says.  
  
“You don’t _know_ that,” she says, and people are looking now, but she doesn’t care, because this _bastard_ is standing there coolly telling her that his son, _her Sam_ , is gone forever, and acting like he couldn’t give a shit. “No wonder he never talked about you,” she hisses, and Dean flinches. “He never wanted you here. _I_ don’t want you here. Give me Sam’s phone.”  
  
John looks right at her without a trace of shame. “I don’t have it,” he says.  
  
She bites down hard on her jaw to keep herself from shrieking. Having hysterics isn’t going to help Sam now; she screwed up, she trusted his family when he’d given her every reason not to, and now the one piece of positive evidence she knows of is gone. She swallows, hard, and strides round the table, past Dean (who just stares at her like he’s been struck dumb) until she's standing right in front of John (and she’s glad she wore her two-inch heels today, because it means she’s eye-to-eye with him).  
  
“You gave him up,” she says. “He’s not yours any more, he’s mine. You never deserved him in the first place.”  
  
John doesn’t argue. She steps past him, and as she reaches the door, she turns and says, “Withholding evidence is a crime. You’d better find that phone.”  
  
The air is thick with betrayal as she slams the door of the diner behind her, but she’s not sure who’s betrayed who.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, what are we gonna do?” Dean asked.   
  
“Keep doing what we’re already doing,” Dad replied, watching the cars passing by. “We can’t let ourselves get distracted.”  
  
“What if she goes to the police?” Dean could still feel Jessica’s angry stare on him, like it had caused physical damage or something. “We can’t afford for them to notice us if we want to stick around in town.” _We need to stick around in town_. They had no leads, nothing except the goddamn town and a phone with its memory wiped clean. Salt on the windowsills and a mysterious call, and Sam was gone like he’d never been there.  
  
“She won’t,” Dad said.  
  
“I don’t know, Dad, she looked pretty serious.” Dean had thought she was just another girl, blonde and pretty, and yeah, he’d silently complimented his brother’s taste when he first saw her, but he hadn’t thought someone like that could hold Sam’s interest for long. He was beginning to realise that, for all the watching he’d done from the sidelines, he had no idea what his brother’s life had been like for the last few years.  
  
“Well, then you’re going to have to change her mind,” Dad said. “She’ll come around. They always do.”  
  
And Dean nodded, because that was what he did, Dad told him what to do and he did it, but he thought that even after the display in the diner, Dad still didn’t get that Sam hadn’t chosen Jessica because of the way she looked.  
  
\----  
  
It’s the third time she’s opened the door to find Dean standing on the other side. The first time, she was desperate (and the desperation hasn’t gone away, it’s just been joined by other emotions); the second, she was hopeful.  
  
This time, she’s furious.  
  
“Did you bring the phone?” she asks, and he looks away, doesn’t offer a smile, looks guilty, and _good_ , because he deserves to. She starts to close the door, but Dean puts his arm out to stop her.  
  
“Please,” he says. “I gotta talk to you.”  
  
She’s tempted to slam it anyway, because she’s given him all the chances she can bear to give, and she thinks if she lets him in again and she’s wrong ( _again_ ) it’s going to be more than she can handle. But he looks at her, and for the first time she sees Sam in the lines of his face, in the miserable look in his eyes. She never could resist that look from Sam (sometimes she thinks that it’s going to be her downfall), and, as it turns out, she can’t resist it from Dean either.   
  
He shuffles into the apartment behind her, and she doesn’t ask him to sit down, just waits, clenching her hands to stop them from twitching because she’s not going to show him how much all this is affecting her. He fidgets, though, shifting from foot to foot, and looking around like he hasn’t already been here twice. Finally, she loses patience. _Dean_ , she says, and it’s enough to get his attention away from his own discomfort for a moment. He clears his throat and says, “Look, I get why you’re pissed, I really do, but it’s not what you think.”  
  
She wonders if he knows what she thinks, or thinks he does, or if he’s just stalling for time. “Then tell me,” she says. “You tell me why you didn’t hand that phone over to the police, Dean, because from where I’m standing it looks like you don’t even want them to find Sam.”  
  
Dean looks shocked, and she realises that he _doesn’t_ know what she thinks. “Jesus, Jessica, of course we want to find him. He’s our family.”  
  
She thinks about the scars again, and about the way John stares like he sees things that no-one else can. “Then why?”  
  
He chews his lip and looks straight at her. “Jessica,” he says, “what did Sam tell you about... about when he was a kid?”  
  
She shakes her head. “He never talks about it,” she says, and she sees that it hurts Dean, and she can’t help but be glad. “He said he moved around a lot, because of your dad’s work. He said he’d had an argument with you. That’s all.”  
  
Dean’s face tightens, and he looks away. She wonders about the argument—Sam never gave her any details about it, not even whether it had been with his father or brother, or both, and she hadn’t pushed, because every time she mentioned it he would get quiet and change the subject, and she didn’t want to do anything to put that look on his face. She always thought she had time, that one day he would be ready to tell her (and he still would, he _still would_ ). She’s thought about marrying him, more than once, and wondered if his family would be invited to the wedding.  
  
She never thought this would be how she would meet them.  
  
“Our lives,” Dean says, “Sam’s life... it’s complicated. We’re not like most people, but we got reasons for what we do.”  
  
She feels her insides twist. “It’s not enough, Dean,” she says. “It’s not good enough. Either you tell me, or leave now, because we have nothing else to say to each other.”  
  
Dean looks like he’s trying to decide, and she steps back towards the door, putting her hand on the latch, because she wants him _out_ , no matter how miserable he looks, but he looks up quickly and says, “No, it’s OK, Jessica, I’ll tell you.” She looks back at him, waiting, her hand still on the door, and he holds her gaze and says, “Do you believe in ghosts?”  
  
\----  
  
Dean talks for almost an hour, and she doesn’t interrupt. He starts at the beginning, telling her about the fire that killed Sam’s mother, and then he spins a tale of years spent crossing the country, staying in motels and short-term rental units, sleeping in the car, target practice after school and Latin instead of Little League. It’s compelling, fascinating, even astonishing. What it is not is believable.  
  
At first she listens because she thinks that maybe this time he’s going to tell her the truth, but later she listens because she’s trying to decide if he’s delusional or just lying again, and finally she listens because she can’t help herself, because it’s like watching a car-crash in slow motion, and she thinks _Jesus, he really believes it_.   
  
Finally, he stops and looks at her, and she has no idea what to say. _You’re crazy_ is the first thing that comes to mind, but she doesn’t think it’s the most prudent choice. She thinks back to John, to the way he looks, and she can believe it of him, she can believe that the mind behind those eyes is torn loose from its moorings and flapping in the breeze, but she finds its harder to understand Dean, because he seems so functional, so _normal_ , just some cocky guy who thinks too much of himself, God, he seems more normal than Sam ever did.  
  
And then there’s Sam. If this has been his life – if Dean’s not lying this time, and it’s a big if – does he believe it too? She’s seen John Winchester first-hand, and when she tries to imagine what it might be like to grow up with him as the only stable presence in your life, she can see how it could happen, how two kids could get caught up in their father’s insanity. _Is that why Sam left them?_ she wonders. _Because he realised that none of it was real?_ And then she realises that Dean is still waiting.  
  
“You don’t believe me,” he says flatly, and once again she can’t answer because _no_ , she _doesn’t_ believe him, of course she doesn’t, he’s just told her that the wide scar on her lover’s shoulder that looks a lot like a knife-wound was actually made by a werewolf’s claws, that Sam can exorcise demons as well as any Catholic priest, that silver works on zombies and shape-shifters but not on ghosts. Of _course_ she doesn’t believe him.  
  
Dean stands up, and now _he_ looks angry, just a little, and she thinks she wouldn’t want to face him when he was really mad (but she also thinks that she _will_ if she has to, and she’s beginning to think that such a confrontation is inevitable). He heads for the bedroom, for _their_ bedroom, hers and Sam’s, and she wants to fling herself at him because she doesn’t want him in there any more, Sam’s escaped that life now, and she still doesn’t fully or even slightly understand what kind of life it was, but she knows she doesn’t want it to take him back.  
  
Except that she has to admit to herself that maybe Sam hasn’t escaped, maybe even before he disappeared he hadn’t broken free from it, because Dean finds a curved knife with a wicked edge in a drawer with a false bottom, a handgun hidden behind the wardrobe, and a small, leather-bound book filled with Latin taped to the underside of the bed. He lays the items on the coverlet and she has the urge to sweep them away, to scream at him that it doesn’t _mean_ anything, none of it, because Sam was, Sam _is_ normal, he’s smart and dedicated and kind and he’s going to be a brilliant lawyer and they’re going to get married and have a perfect life, but she remembers the salt on the windowsill and other things, little things that she gave up asking about years ago, and she wonders if she ever really knew Sam at all.  
  
“He’s just being careful,” Dean says, and if he thinks that makes her feel better then he’s crazier than she thought. “I don’t think he’s been hunting.”  
  
 _What the hell’s that supposed to mean?_ she wants to yell, but instead she says _get out_ , and Dean looks nonplussed, like he thinks that now that he’s proved to her that her lover’s insane, everything’s going to be OK.  
  
“Jessica-” he says, but she holds up her hand, she can’t bear to hear another word.  
  
“Just go.”  
  
He shifts his weight, and then he holds something out, a scrap of white card. She doesn’t take it, and it falls from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. “We’re in room twenty-five,” he says, as if that’s supposed to mean something, and she thinks that she doesn’t understand anything he says any more, that nothing makes sense, and she wonders if it’s his fault or hers.  
  
She doesn’t reply, and she doesn’t pick up the card even after he’s gone. She stands rigid in the middle of the room, and she can’t even sink onto the bed because it’s tainted, there’s a _gun_ on it for Christ’s sake, and she can’t imagine Sam, Sam who would never hurt a fly, even holding a gun, let alone owning one and hiding it in their apartment ( _their_ apartment), let alone using one. She stares at the assortment of objects on the bed and thinks _how did I not know?_   
  
Sam’s been gone for twelve days, and all he’s left her with is secrets and lies.  
  
\----  
  
Dad was waiting in the Impala when Dean left Sam’s apartment, and Dean thrust his hands in his pockets, feeling the cold even though it was seventy degrees. He slumped into the passenger seat and didn’t wait to be asked to report.  
  
“She kicked me out,” he said, and it was true, but what he really meant was _I blew it. I fucked up our chance to get her on side, and maybe she’s gonna call the cops, maybe, and what the hell will we do then?_  
  
Dad didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but he didn’t need to, because Dean had had no-one but his father and Sam since he was four years old, and the last few years he’d had no-one but his father, and they didn’t need words to communicate any more (if they ever had). Dad wasn’t a talker, that was Sam, he was the one who’d filled up all the silences with his chatter and his anger and his _voice_ , and Dean didn’t even know whether he was a talker or not, because for years he’d thought he was, he talked to Sam all the time after all, but then Sam had left him, left them both, and suddenly silence filled up Dean’s world and he thought that maybe he wasn’t a talker after all. And now Sam had left them again, and Dean wasn’t sure he could bring him back this time.  
  
“Did you tell her?” Dad asked finally.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. It was weird, because Dad never wanted to tell anyone, never, when someone found out by accident or because they encountered something, Dad got tense and more often than not someone wound up on the business end of a John Winchester dressing-down (and that person was usually Sam). Lying was woven into the fabric of their lives so tightly that sometimes Dean wasn’t even sure what the truth was any more. But Dad had looked at Dean and said _if you have to, tell her the truth_. And Dean had nodded, even though that, right there, had scared him more than maybe anything, because what did it mean, did it mean that Dad was scared, did it mean he thought they might not find Sam?   
  
And Dean had told Jessica, told her everything, and it hadn’t done any good. And what did _that_ mean?  
  
“Is she going to the cops?” Dad asked, and Dean held his breath and let it out all at once and wondered what they would do if she did, whether they would be able to pick up Sam’s trail if they couldn’t be in Palo Alto, whether there was even anything to find there or whether the town was empty, like Sonora, like Sam’s apartment.  
  
“I don’t know. She seemed pretty pissed, but...” Dean closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”  
  
Dad nodded. “We’ll keep packed, just in case.”  
  
\----  
  
She takes two busses across town to get to the motel, and she doesn’t even know why, except that she wants to see for herself, to see something more of Sam’s life that stretched behind him like a trailing void for all the years since they met, and now is being filled up with words and images that she doesn’t want to see. It’s a low-rent place, twenty minutes’ walk from the bus-stop, and she slows as she approaches, looking at the cars in the parking lot, wondering which one’s theirs, wondering if it’s the same car that Dean told her they used to sleep in when money was tight. Now that she’s here, she’s not sure she wants to go through with it any more – a motel is fine as an abstract concept, but she’s never actually been in one before, and maybe if she sees what it’s like inside it’ll be real, Sam really will have lived this life that’s so much sadder even than what she imagined (because Dean can claim anything he wants, but she _knows_ those scars are real and she’s even more certain now that John made them, directly or indirectly). But Sam’s _gone_ , he’s gone and she thinks now that maybe it has something to do with this, with what Dean told her, with a life that sounds like it’s torn from the pages of the sort of novel she likes to read, like the ones that Sam always teases her about because they’re so lurid. The police say Sam just got bored and left, and Dean says something that doesn’t, _can’t_ exist got to Sam somehow, and neither story can be true but at least Dean’s still trying, Dean’s still looking. So she goes to the door of number twenty-five and raises her hand to knock, and it doesn’t even occur to her until this moment that they probably aren’t in, that they’re probably out looking for Sam right now, doesn’t occur to her until she’s been waiting for over a minute, and she feels a bitter flood of disappointment. She tries the door, though, not because she thinks it’ll be unlocked, but because she’s run out of ideas, she’s been gone from the apartment for over an hour (and she still feels her stomach twist every time she imagines Sam calling while she’s out, because he still might call, _he still might_ ) and she’s got nothing to show for it.  
  
Someone clears their throat behind her as she’s still standing with her hand on the door handle, and she turns, guilt jumping in her stomach. It’s not them, though, it’s a courier holding a package and chewing gum (God, he’s chewing _gum_ , Sam’s been gone fifteen days and this guy’s just standing there chewing _gum_ ). He looks her up and down, and says “I take it you’re not John Winchester.”  
  
She doesn’t know why she does it – she’s never done anything like it before, but Sam’s gone, Sam’s _gone_ , and she smiles and says, “Joan Winchester. They always get that wrong,” and rolls her eyes like this happens to her all the time.  
  
He shrugs. “You got ID?”  
  
She surprises herself by pulling out her wallet and finding Sam’s library card—she borrowed it from him two days before he disappeared because she lost hers (and she still remembers how annoyed she was when he said _don’t lose this one, OK?_ in that condescending tone he sometimes gets, and _God_ , she would give anything for him to patronise her now)—and holding it out. There’s no photo, and she covers the first name with her thumb.  
  
The courier shrugs again and nods. “Sign here,” he says, and she signs _J. Winchester_ because she was hoping, _expecting_ that to be her name someday anyway. He holds out the package and she takes it, and it’s only after he’s gone that she feels her heart-rate speed up and her legs tremble, and she doesn’t know why she did it, she doesn’t know _why_ , but it’s done now and she has to get away before someone realises.  
  
She makes it half way to the bus-stop before she has to stop and sit down. She turns off the road into a side-street, and sits on a step; the stone is cold and hard, but she relishes it, because it’s real, she can touch it and feel the grit under her fingers and know that some things are still dependable. She stares at the package in her lap, and if she opens it then there’s no going back.  
  
She rips the paper open.  
  
It’s an object wrapped in soft foam, small and hard, and as she unwraps the packing her heart speeds up again because she recognises it, she _recognises_ it, it’s Sam’s phone, it’s Sam’s _fucking_ phone and why, how the hell did it arrive at John Winchester’s motel room by courier?  
  
There’s a note wrapped around the phone, inside the packing. _John, managed to get the last ten numbers called and answered. Hope it helps. Caleb._  
  
 _Caleb_ , she thinks, and she wonders if Caleb knows Sam, if he cares about him, if he knows what’s happened. She holds the phone in her hands, feeling its weight, Sam’s phone, _Sam’s_ , and she waits a moment before she flips through to the last calls received, feeling like she can barely breathe.  
  
The most recent call received and answered came on October the second at one thirty-five in the morning. She stares at the caller ID and feels her vision blur.  
  
It says _Dean_.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m sorry, no,” said the woman, shivering slightly from the fresh morning air, and Dean resisted the urge to shove the photo in her face and say _look again. Look again._ There was no reason for her to have seen Sam – she didn’t even live that close to Sam’s apartment – but God, they’d been at this for two freakin weeks and how could _no-one_ have seen anything? Granted, Jessica said Sam had left in the middle of the night, but Palo Alto wasn’t exactly Nowheresville, Idaho, and did no-one stay up past ten o’ clock in California?   
  
The woman stared at him. “Was there something else you wanted?”  
  
Dean shrugged, stepping back from her door. She was wearing a dressing gown and slippers, he noticed for the first time. The slippers had bunny faces on them. Ugly as fucking sin. _No-one saw anything._  
  
Maybe he should be grateful, he thought, moving on to the next door. If something dramatic had happened to Sam, someone would have seen or heard something, right? So if no-one had, then maybe Sam was OK, maybe he was just...  
  
 _Just what?_  
  
And that was the problem, because no matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn’t reconcile the idea of Sam being _OK_ with Sam being _gone_. And if there was one thing Sam definitely was, it was _gone_.   
  
His cell phone rang thirty minutes later, Dad calling to let him know that the library had closed and ask him where to pick him up. Dean was half-glad, because he was tired and foot-sore, and only having one car was turning out to be a massive drag (but neither of them had wanted to break off the search long enough to go and fetch the truck from the shop where they’d left it in Salt Lake City). The other half of him wanted to scream, because he’d been doing this all day, and he was no closer than he’d been when they arrived in town, and he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to stop until they found what they were looking for.  
  
Dad was quiet in the car on the way back to the motel, and Dean didn’t ask, because knew that if there was anything he needed to know, he would be told it. He was surprised, then, when Dad swore under his breath as they pulled into the parking lot, and he looked up to see Jessica sitting on the step outside their room.  
  
“What is she doing here?” Dad asked. “Did you tell her where we were staying?”  
  
Dean swallowed, because it had been a gamble, telling her, making it easy for the cops to find them if she did decide to call them, but he wanted, he _wanted_ her to believe them. Sam loved her, of that he had no doubt. Sam shared his home with her, shared his life with her, had been doing for years, and God, Dean didn’t even _know_ her, didn’t even know her last name, for Christ’s sake. He wanted to know her last name.  
  
“I’ll talk to her,” he said, already getting out of the car, because she’d told him to get out the last time she’d seen him, but she’d threatened to call the cops the last time she’d seen Dad, and Dean figured it was the lesser of two evils. Dad said something, but Dean didn’t hear, he was already out of the car and Jessica had seen him and was standing up with such a mixture of rage, grief and fear on her face that it made Dean, a veteran of more than ten years hunting things that would kill you soon as look at you, take a step back in apprehension. Then she was striding towards him, and something about the way she walked reminded him painfully of Sam in that moment, as if all the time they spent together had fused them into a single person. There wasn’t time for freakin reflection though, because Jessica was right up in his face, and before he had time to work out how to handle the situation – to work out what he’d done wrong this time – she’d slapped him, hard enough to snap his head to one side, and before he’d really had time to process _that_ , she was all flailing limbs and flashing eyes, kicking and scratching and he was holding her wrists but she fought like a goddamn trapped animal, growling at him in a way that made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end.  
  
And then Dad was there, pulling Jessica back, pinning her arms to her sides, and she was still struggling, but Dean knew from experience that she had no chance in hell against those biceps. He put his hand to his cheek, feeling the blood begin to well up from the scratches she had got in before he’d had a chance to block her. “What the hell, Jessica?”  
  
“What did you _do_?” she spat, and her voice sounded scraped-raw and painful. “What the _hell_ did you say to him, Dean? How could you take him away from me like that?”  
  
Dean stared, trying to wrap his head round what she was saying, but he couldn’t because it didn’t make sense. Who was she talking about?   
  
“God _dammit_ ,”she screamed then, and managed somehow to wrench herself away from Dad, whirling so that she was facing both of them and backing away. “What are you even doing here? Did you just come to torture me? God, Jesus, what did you _do_ with him?”  
  
OK, this was totally getting out of hand, and Dean felt uneasiness growing in his stomach, because whatever it was that Jessica was talking about it was pretty goddamn serious and it was freaking him the hell out. He took a step forward, but Jessica glared at him, breathing heavily, her hair hanging in dishevelled hanks around her face. “Don’t you touch me,” she said. “Don’t you come _near_ me.”  
  
Dean raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He could tell that Dad was ready to explode, the line of his jaw tense, but they’d agreed that Jessica was Dean’s problem, and Dean hoped that Dad would stick to that now. “Hey,” he said, “hey. You need to calm down and tell me what it is you think I did.”  
  
Jessica laughed, and the sound dragged across Dean’s skin like sandpaper. “There’s no point pretending any more,” she said. “I know. I _know_. I’ve seen the fucking phone.” And she produced an object from her pocket, holding it up like a talisman. Sam’s phone.  
  
Dad stepped forward now, his arm extending like a whip. “Where the hell did you get that?”  
  
Jessica took another step back, out of his reach, though Dean knew he could have caught her in a moment if he’d wanted to. They needed to play this carefully, though. Something very weird was going on. “Jessica,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle, even though he was beginning to get pretty goddamn frustrated because OK, yeah, this girl was Sam’s girlfriend or whatever and she obviously loved Sam but she was acting like a total nutjob and that wasn’t going to help get him back. “Where did you get the phone?”  
  
Jessica shook her head. “Does it matter?” she asked. “I know it was you who called him that night, Dean. It’s all right here. No wonder you tried to hide it from me. And now he’s gone, Jesus, he’s gone, you’ve taken him away and he was _happy_ , we were happy, why did you have to come here and ruin everything?” Her hand – the one that wasn’t clutching the phone – was clenched into a fist, and Dean could hardly understand what she was saying, she was so incoherent, but he understood enough to feel like the ground had suddenly dropped out from beneath his feet.  
  
“What?” he whispered, and it felt like his lips had gone numb, he could barely form the word, and Dad spoke at the same time, his _What?_ splitting the mild October air like a gunshot.  
  
Jessica shook her head. “Don’t play games with me. I just want him back. Tell me where he is.”  
  
“I...” Dean glanced at his father. Dad’s eyes flicked sideways, just for a second, and Dean felt ice in his veins. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. I didn’t... I didn’t call him, Jessica.”  
  
Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can just play me,” she said. “I’m taking this to the police. I hope you guys have a good lawyer.”  
  
“No...” Dean said, stepping forward again as she half-turned to go. “Please, Jessica, please. I didn’t call him, I promise, God, why would I even be here if I had? Please, let me look at the phone. Please.” And God, he could feel Sam slipping between his fingers even now, feel his brother sliding away with every step that Jessica took. _Don’t go, Sam. Don’t leave me here by myself._  
  
Jessica turned back, and she eyed Dean with open suspicion. He stared at her, and he didn’t even know how to put on an act now, didn’t have an act to put on, he just stared and willed her to believe him, and beside him he felt his father, tensed and ready for action if he failed ( _except he’d already failed_ ).  
  
Finally, Jessica clenched her jaw and pressed a couple of buttons on the phone. She held it up so he could see the screen, and he leaned forward, not wanting to step any closer, not wanting to do anything that might break the uneasy truce. It was hard to see in the light, rapidly dimming now as the sun dipped towards the horizon, but he squinted and then he saw how the dark-grey letters spelled out the word _Dean_.  
  
He stepped back, staggered really, falling heavily against the side of the car, and he felt rather than saw Dad look at him sharply.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Dean couldn’t answer though, he was too, God, he was, what was he, shit, how, _how_? He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, his fingers clumsy with confusion, and what had he been doing, what had he been _doing_ that night? They had been in Arizona, hunting, he had been out all night in the desert, he even remembered it, remembered thinking that it looked like there were a billion stars up there. He hadn’t lost his phone. He hadn’t called Sam. He hadn’t.  
  
Dad was still staring at him, and Jessica was too, and he shook his head, because he couldn’t deal with them right now, couldn’t deal with _this_. He flicked through his call list, back to October the second, stared at the list for a long moment before it even penetrated his brain that he hadn’t made any calls on that day. “I didn’t,” he said, and Jessica frowned, her jaw tight.  
  
“Show me,” she said, and he handed the phone over, her long fingers snatching it, not stepping any closer than she needed to. She stared down at the screen, and then her eyes narrowed.  
  
“You erased it,” she said, and tossed the phone back to him.  
  
“No,” he said. “No. Dad, I didn’t. I didn’t”  
  
Dad was watching him with careful eyes, and Dean just held his breath until his father nodded.   
  
“I know, son,” he said, and his voice was gruff but Dean caught the gentleness underneath it, because God, he knew that tone well enough by now. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”  
  
Jessica looked from one to the other, and she still looked furious ( _and terrified_ ), but she wasn’t walking away. “So, what?” she said. “You’re telling me someone stole Dean’s phone and called Sam and told him to come help change a tyre? That makes no sense.”  
  
Dean scrubbed a hand over the lower half of his face. “None of this makes any sense,” he muttered, and, on a whim, he flipped through his address book to Sam’s number and pressed _call_. The little phone in Jessica’s hand started ringing, and she stared down at it in surprise, starting to answer before Dean said, “It’s just me.”  
  
Jessica frowned, then looked up at Dean. “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s someone else.”  
  
“No,” said Dean, and held up his own phone, showing her the display. “It’s me.”  
  
Jessica swallowed and stared at the phone in her hand for a second longer, then held it up to show Dean. The display read _unknown number_.  
  
“Shit,” said Dean, the realisation hitting him like a freakin truck, because Jesus Christ what the hell was going on? “Shit. I changed my number. Sam didn’t have the new one. I changed it, like, three months ago.”  
  
Jessica looked at him like he wasn’t making any sense. “Did someone else get your old number?”  
  
“I don’t know. Here.” Dean held out his hand for the phone, and Jessica watched him for a long moment before reluctantly putting it in his palm. He scrolled through the address book to _Dean_ and pressed _call_. A moment later, an electronic voice told him that the number had been disconnected.  
  
“How...” Dean pulled the phone away from his ear like it had bitten him. “Dad?”  
  
Dad was watching him, his face impassive. “Whatever it was, it wanted him to think it was you.”  
  
“What do you mean, _whatever_?” Jessica said, and her tone was a challenge.  
  
Dad turned to her, raised his eyebrows. “My son told you the truth,” he said. “It’s up to you whether you accept it.”  
  
\----  
  
They give her coffee, and it’s just as bad as the stuff she ordered in the diner, if not worse, but she’s grateful anyway. She sits on the stained coverlet of the motel bed and wills her hands to stop shaking ( _but they won’t_ ). Everything’s wrong, everything’s upside down, and she’s been away from the apartment for _hours_ now, and what if Sam’s called, what if he’s called and she wasn’t there to answer? Except she knows he hasn’t called. Just like Dean never called him, even though that’s impossible. All of this is impossible. But it’s happening anyway, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.  
  
Dean is pacing around the room, nervous, almost bouncing off the walls, and she sees the guilt in his face, even though he says he didn’t do it, didn’t call Sam, and she believes him even though she thinks she must be crazy. John is sitting calmly at the table, and there’s a bag open in front of him that contains what amounts to an arsenal, more weapons than she’s ever seen in one place before, not just guns, but knives and tasers and things that she can’t even identify and is that a _crossbow_? He’s touching them, one by one, like he’s counting them or grounding himself, and the growth of rough black beard on his face hides his expression.  
  
The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in maps and newspaper clippings and diagrams, and she _knows_ this is what serial killers’ houses are supposed to look like, God, she’s seen enough horror movies, and yet here she is, sitting here on the bed with two men who she’s pretty damn certain could kill her in a moment without the aid of any of the weapons in that bag, two men she was convinced were delusional this morning, and the sun’s gone down on another day and maybe _she’s_ the one who’s delusional.  
  
“So how?” she says, and winces at the ripped-up sound of her voice, because she doesn’t want them to know just how fucked up she is.  
  
Dean shakes his head, still moving, always moving. “There’s plenty of things... Spirits can imitate voices, shape-shifters, maybe. I don’t know how they could use the number, though...” he trails off, looks at his father.  
  
John doesn’t look up. He’s still running his hands deliberately over his _God_ his _arsenal_ , what the _hell_ is she doing here? “I don’t know yet,” he says. “We’ll find out. It’s good, it’s new information. It can help us.”  
  
“Dad,” says Dean, and he sounds helpless, close to tears, and she looks at him sharply. He’s stopped moving now, is standing still, or as still as she imagines he ever gets, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. She thinks about Sam, about how Sam was the quiet centre of the whirlwind of her life, how he could sit concentrating for hours and never move a muscle. They’re so different, these brothers.  
  
“Dean,” says John, and he sounds indifferent. “It wasn’t you. You couldn’t have done anything.”  
  
She wonders how he can say those words in such a cool tone, but Dean seems to shrink a little, his shoulders relaxing, and there’s still misery etched in the lines on his face, but there’s less of it now. She wonders what he hears in John’s words that she doesn’t. She wonders if Sam would hear it too.  
  
John has finished with the weapons, and he stands up. “There’s not much we can do until the library opens again,” he says, as if somehow he needed that time to sit and take stock before moving into making plans. “Dean, go and get us something to eat and take Jessica home. I’ll make some calls, see if anyone’s ever heard of anything like this.”  
  
Dean nods once, moves towards the door, but she’s already on her feet. “The campus libraries are open all night,” she says. “I... I can get in. I’ve got a card.” _I’ve got Sam’s card._   
  
John and Dean both look at her, and then exchange glances. Dean looks surprised; John looks impassive. She swallows, because she doesn’t really know what she’s agreeing to, doesn’t know anything except that this might be the only way to find Sam. “I want to help,” she says.  
  
John looks at Dean. “Do the campus libraries have internet access?”  
  
She hesitates. “Yes... but I only have one card. We have the internet at home, though.”  
  
John thinks for a moment, then nods. “Internet first. Dean, go with Jessica. Keep me posted.”  
  
Dean nods again, no arguments, smoothly switching gears at his father’s word. She looks from one to the other and wonders what she’s getting herself into, getting involved with these men, with this life that Sam left behind.   
  
But Sam’s not here now, and she is.  
  
\----  
  
At first, she doesn’t know what to look for. Everything is strange, websites full of gruesome pictures and books of occult symbols, everything couched in mysterious terms, shadows and melodrama, nothing like the colourful textbooks and careful references of her sociology degree. Dean helps her, though, he shows her where to look, shows her _how_ to look, and pretty soon she’s better at it than him, because she’s always been good at studying, not like Sam is but good enough, she got into Stanford after all, and Dean has no patience for it, she discovers. He’ll pick up a book, read it for ten minutes, then sigh and go to make himself coffee or go to the bathroom; sometimes, he’ll start to get up from the table and then it’s like he remembers why he’s reading in the first place and he’ll sit back down, eyes shadowed with guilt. They don’t talk much, though what they do say is civil enough. What they _don’t_ say would fill enough pages for Dean to make a million cups of coffee.  
  
After a couple of days, when he’s sure she’s got the hang, Dean leaves her alone. She doesn’t know what he and John are doing – she calls them sometimes to keep them updated, not that she ever finds out anything useful, though she discovers a hell of a lot of things that she doesn’t think ever could be useful, like the best way to skin a chupacabra or how many times widdershins to walk round a pentacle in order to cure the pox. She feels like she’s been transported five hundred years back in time, and sometimes she’s almost surprised to look up from her book and see the cheerfulness of the yellow curtains at the kitchen window and the cars passing on the street beyond. She feels herself gradually pulling away from that world, the world of TV and baseball and law school and science, and into a new one, a world of isolation, of superstition and alchemy and creatures that want nothing more than to kill for the joy of it. She doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t like the walls she feels building themselves up between her and the view out of her window, but Sam’s had his feet in those shadows all this time and now they’ve swallowed him up, and she has no choice but to follow him.  
  
After a week ( _Sam’s been gone twenty-two days_ ), she receives a phone call from her academic advisor concerning the number of classes she’s missed. Doctor Simmons is sympathetic, claims to understand what a difficult time this must be for her (and she looks at the sheets of paper covered with magical diagrams that are spread out across the kitchen table and thinks _no, you don’t understand anything_ ), but if she misses any more she’s going to fail out the semester. She feels her hand tighten on the phone until it actually hurts, and she says she’ll take the rest of the semester off, and doesn’t listen when Simmons tells her what a bad move that would be academically. She feels dazed after she puts the phone down, and she realises she hasn’t spoken to anyone except John and Dean for two days.  
  
The next day, Zack comes to see her. He doesn’t call, and so it’s a scramble to get all the books and papers hidden away in time. Zack smiles sadly, asks her how she is, asks her if she’s heard anything, anything at all. He says he and Becky tried to get their father to put pressure on the police to keep the investigation open, but nothing worked. He says he’s there to listen, if she needs to talk.  
  
She shifts awkwardly; she doesn’t want to talk, she wants to get back to her studies, to doing something, to finding Sam. Zack’s looking at her with this sympathetic expression, this worried smile. He says something about how she shouldn’t cut herself off, let herself get disconnected, and she almost laughs out loud. He frowns, says they’re worried about her. She shrugs, says she’s fine, she’s dealing, she’s OK.  
  
When she sees him out, he turns and there’s sadness in his face. “It’s the not knowing,” he says. “That’s the worst thing.”  
  
When she gets back to her books and stares down at the endless words, the arcane knowledge accumulated over thousands of years that may or may not contain the snippet that will lead them to Sam, she thinks that he’s right.  
  
\----  
  
“Hello,” Dad said, and Dean found himself drifting up through layers of sleep. His neck and back ached, and he became vaguely aware that he’d fallen asleep in the armchair again, which sucked because that meant most likely he would be stuck with this aching back shit for the rest of the day. He blinked a few times to clear his vision. Dad was sitting on the bed across from him, and Dean thought he probably hadn’t slept at all. Lately, neither of them had been doing much in the way of sleeping.  
  
“Morgan,” Dad said, and stood up, and Dean saw that he was on the phone. “You need something? I’m busy on a case...”  
  
Dean stretched, cracking his vertebrae and wondering about coffee, wondering what time it was. It was morning, anyway, that was clear from the sunshine spilling through the window. He scowled at it. Sunshine was so not his thing right now.  
  
“Look, if you’ve got something to say, then say it,” Dad said sharply, and Dean looked up, frowning. Had Dad and Morgan managed to get into an argument? But they’d only just started talking (not that it would be the first time Dad had managed to piss off one of his friends pretty much instantly, but still).  
  
“No, I told you I couldn’t take that case,” Dad said. “I’m working on something else.”  
  
Dean shuddered. _Something else._  
  
“No, Dean’s right here,” Dad said, his voice rising, and Dean was wondering what the hell this conversation was about when Dad suddenly stood stock still. “What?” he said, and sounded so shocked that Dean was instantly alert, ready for anything. Dad didn’t signal to him, though, he just stood there, his knuckles white on the phone. “You’re... you’re sure it was him?” he said, and Dean felt his stomach lurch because these days there was only one person _him_ referred to. He stood up, raising his eyebrows at his father, but Dad shook his head sharply. “No, look...” he said, and then sighed loudly. “I can’t... No, I didn’t know he was going down there. You know we don’t talk. No. Fine. Well don’t come running... Fine, I won’t.” He snapped the phone shut, and Dean stared, because he’d heard his father arguing with one guy or another about a million times, and he’d never heard him be so half-hearted about it. Of course, that wasn’t the important thing now.  
  
Dad stared at him. “Morgan went down to Jericho,” he said. “He went to take on the case I said I couldn’t do. Said he saw Sam there.”  
  
Dean felt his knees give slightly, and he put his hand on the back of the armchair to steady himself. Jericho was only two hours away. _Two hours_. “Was he sure it was him?”  
  
Dad shook his head, laughed like he was hopped-up or something. “He was pissed at me for sending one of my boys to do it when I said I wouldn’t, wasting his trip.” Dad rubbed his hands over his face, and Dean thought _one of my boys_. “Said he didn’t see him too well, just passed him when he was driving through town. Could be someone else.”   
  
Dean sat down now. _Could be someone else._ God, it didn’t make sense. What the hell was Sam doing in Jericho? They’d been here for almost a month, they’d investigated every goddamn thing they could think of and found nothing, and Sam was two hours down the road in a podunk town with a probable ghost problem? _Could be someone else.  
  
Could be Sam._  
  
Dad cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders. “Get your stuff,” he said. “We’re leaving in ten.”  
  
\----  
  
When the doorbell rings, she thinks at first it’s going to be trick-or-treaters, even though it’s barely midday, and she remembers how much she was looking forward to this Hallowe’en, how she bought her costume six weeks ago in a joke shop, a PVC nurse’s outfit, she thought it would drive the boys crazy, maybe make Sam a little jealous, make him possessive. Just thinking about it makes her feel ill.  
  
The next thought she has is that it’ll be one of her friends again. They’ve been coming in a steady trickle, obviously planned, they’ve been talking about how to fix her. She doesn’t need fixing. She needs Sam.  
  
She almost doesn’t answer the door, almost, almost, but then she reminds herself that they’re her friends, hers and Sam’s, and maybe they’re driving her crazy but she owes them something at least. When she opens the door, though, it’s Dean standing there, and he looks nervous and determined and more confident than she’s seen him for weeks.  
  
“We’re leaving,” he says, and she feels something inside her break, because Sam’s been gone for thirty days and his family are giving up.  
  
“You can’t,” she says, and she remembers how all she wanted a few weeks ago was for them to leave her alone.   
  
“We’ve got a lead,” Dean says. “We think Sam might be in Jericho. We’ll let you know what we find.”  
  
She gapes at him, but only for a moment. Then she pushes past him, out of the door and onto the street, and strides across the road to where their car is parked, sleek and black and out of place. Dean catches up with her, his face full of confusion, catches her arm, but she shrugs him off and wrenches open the back door of the car, slides into the seat, wonders how often Sam sat here, how many hours of _Sam_ there are locked into the leather and chrome.  
  
John looks at her in the rear-view mirror. “Jessica,” he says evenly.  
  
Dean slides into the passenger seat and flashes an apologetic look at his father. “What are you doing?” he asks.  
  
“I’m coming with you,” she says. _You’re not leaving me behind again._  
  
Dean and John exchange looks. “It’s too dangerous,” Dean says.  
  
She could argue with him, protest that she’s not a child, that she can cope with danger, that his attitude is chauvinistic. Instead, she says, “I don’t care.”  
  
Dean chews his lip. “At least get an overnight bag,” he says, and she thinks _wow, you really think I was born yesterday, don’t you_ and just stares back at his eyes in the mirror, daring him to make her leave.  
  
John’s face twitches, and he starts the engine.


	5. Chapter 5

Jericho’s a one-horse town tucked into the scrub-covered hills two hours south of Palo Alto. She’s has never been there before, never had reason to go, and now she stares out of the window of the old car as it negotiates the streets, wondering what reason Sam might have had to leave without a word and come to this place that looks like any other town. She scrutinises every face, tries to watch both sides of the car at once, looking out for a familiar figure, but there’s no-one that could be him, no-one even close. Dean says _on the right_ , nothing else, no explanation, and she breaks off from her vigil a moment to see what he’s referring to – it’s a sign for a motel, and John turns the wheel, heads in that direction without even acknowledging his son’s words. She wonders if they communicate telepathically.  
  
They’re quiet, John and Dean. Not the way Sam’s quiet with people he doesn’t know, soft-spoken and giving the impression of listening even when he isn’t; she thinks that these two are probably quiet even when they’re alone, maybe not needing to speak, maybe just not wanting to. _How could they be so different?_ she wonders, not for the first time, but as always, no answer is forthcoming.  
  
When they reach the motel check-in desk, John says, “One room, two singles,” and then stops suddenly and looks back at her. Dean shifts uncomfortably; it’s a break in their routine, she realises,and they’re not used to dealing with that.  
  
“I’ll get my own room,” she says. She doesn’t want to sleep in a room that was paid for with stolen money; she doesn’t want to sleep in a room in this motel at all, or in any motel for that matter, she doesn’t want to wake up alone any more, but she thinks even that is better than waking up with these men who she’s known for a month and who still seem like strangers, who’ve turned everyone else in her life into strangers too.  
  
She hands over her card to the clerk, and he gives her an appraising look. She wonders what it looks like to him, two drifters, one of them old enough to be her father, checking into a cheap motel with a well-heeled young woman like her. She wonders if he thinks they’re in some kind of relationship. The whole idea makes her feel dirty, like she’s betraying Sam just by thinking about it.  
  
It’s mid-afternoon when they meet in John’s room (and it’s weird, because Dean is staying there too, but she thinks of it as _John’s room_ ). John is already on his way out the door when she raises her hand to knock, and he glances at her, nods once, like she’s someone he knows he should know but can’t remember the name of. Dean comes out after him and stares at her for a moment like he can’t believe she’s really there.  
  
“We’re on pavement-pounding duty,” he says, and hands her a photo of Sam, as if she doesn’t have any of her own.  
  
It’s dark by the time they get back to the motel, and John still isn’t back. Her feet and back are aching, and her eyes prickle with tears of frustration; no-one has seen Sam. It’s not like he’s easy to miss – even the way he hunches like he’s trying to pretend he’s invisible, his height marks him out automatically – but all they got for their efforts was blank faces and head-shakes. She drops down onto a bench on the forecourt, not wanting to go inside the dark, dingy little room where there’s no-one waiting for her. Dean stands for a minute watching her, then disappears into his room and comes back a moment later holding something in his hand.  
  
“Hell of a day,” he says, sitting down beside her and offering the object to her, and she sees it’s a hip flask. God, she’s sitting out front of a motel in some crappy town in inland California, with a guy who she normally wouldn’t spare a second glance offering her a hip flask. ( _And this was Sam’s life, his whole life before he met her._ ) She accepts, takes a pull, winces a little as the whiskey burns her throat.  
  
“So, you and Sam, huh?” Dean says, and his voice sounds playful in the dark, but if she could see his face she knows, somehow, that he wouldn’t be smiling. “How’d you two meet?”  
  
She takes another pull of the whiskey. She doesn’t want to talk about it. “At a party.”  
  
“Jeez, Sam at a party? You gotta be kidding me.” Dean shifts, clears his throat. “Let me guess, he was moping in the corner and you took pity on him.”  
  
“He’s not like that,” she says, and her voice comes out harsher than she intended, but there’s something about the way he talks about Sam that smacks of possessiveness, of _I know him better than you do_ , and even if that’s true, it’s still not _fair_.   
  
Dean holds up his hands. “OK, sorry I spoke.”  
  
She puts the flask down, scrubs her hands over her face. God, she’s just so _tired_. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean... It’s just, I miss him so much, you know?” And she’s said it before she realises what she’s saying, and now she can’t take it back, can’t disown her moment of weakness.  
  
Dean is quiet for a moment, and then he shuffles slightly so that his arm touches hers, and it’s comforting and awkward at the same time. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it. But we’re going to find him, OK?”  
  
She wants to grasp onto the words, to believe in them, to believe that Dean can make everything right; but Dean isn’t her brother, he’s Sam’s, and she has no idea if he can do what he promises or not and no history with him that can give her the faith she needs. She swallows, wondering if Sam is somewhere in this town right now. Up above, the sky is clear and the moon is brilliant.  
  
It’s Hallowe’en, and after what John and Dean have told her, she can’t help but shudder.  
  
\----  
  
“What’s this?” Jessica asked, picking up the sheaf of paper Dad had brought back from the library the day before, printouts of articles going back years.  
  
Dean took a swig of coffee and scowled at the early-morning sunlight that drifted lazily through the blinds. Dad was making some notes in his journal, and didn’t look up.  
  
“The case,” he said.  
  
Dean was busying himself with the coffee again when Jessica said _the case?_ and his heart sank. Since the fight in the motel parking lot two weeks ago, Jessica and Dad had rarely spoken to each other, and that suited Dean just fine, because when they did speak they seemed to rub each other up the wrong way, and Christ, Jessica must have learned that tone of voice from Sam because somehow she’d picked the exact one that was guaranteed to send Dad from calm to spitting nails in three seconds flat. The familiarity of it all washed over Dean with an aching sense of inevitability, and under that, something he hadn’t expected: nostalgia.   
  
Dad looked up sharply and fixed Jessica with a measured stare. “The case,” he confirmed.  
  
Dean cleared his throat, because he knew that the more Jessica pushed, the less Dad would give away. He’d seen it happen often enough with Sam, and it was always a fitting punishment, leaving Sam breathless with rage and frustration. “It’s not a coincidence that Sam would come here, to a town with supernatural activity,” he said, ignoring the slight flick of Dad’s eyes in his direction, because OK, Dad was his dad, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sometimes an asshole. “Dad thinks...” and here he faltered, because he realised he shouldn’t have added the qualifier, should just have stated the opinion as fact, but it was too late now, “...if we solve the case, we find Sam.”  
  
A muscle twitched in Jessica’s jaw, but a moment later she lowered her eyes to the papers in her hands. “What’s the case?” she asked, and Dean relaxed slightly and wished that if he was going to have to go through this shit, it could at least be with Sam and not this stranger. A moment later, he took in the miserable slump of her shoulders and remembered the laughing, vivid girl he’d watched from a distance months ago, and wished he could have met her before all this happened.  
  
“Disappearances,” Dean said, because Dad was still brooding. “Going back twenty years. All men, all on the same stretch of highway. Nothing else in common.”  
  
“So it could be a serial killer,” Jessica said, and Dad snorted. Dean closed his eyes for a moment.  
  
“It could be,” he agreed carefully. “But it’s not. We gotta research the highway, see if there were any unusual occurrences nearby before the disappearances started. Any deaths, kidnappings, torture, that kind of thing. That’s the case.”  
  
Jessica just stared at him, and Dean stared back, because both of them knew that that wasn’t really the case.  
  
\----  
  
She’s surprised by how similar it is to college work. Hours spent in the library, chasing references, filling in gaps, trying to find out how pieces of information are connected together. Even the questioning people isn’t so different from sociological field research. Sometimes, she has to remind herself that she’s hunting ghosts and not just writing a paper.  
  
 _Hunting ghosts_. She still doesn’t really believe it, though it’s clear there are plenty of people out there who do ( _and maybe Sam’s one of them_ ). Still, she’s seen the weapons, the books, the detailed websites, but she’s seen nothing yet to convince her that this isn’t just the realm of conspiracy theorists and paranoid schizophrenics. And there it is, a description of the family she wants to marry into. She knows how to pick them ( _and she wouldn’t change her mind for the world_ ). Now, sitting in a dusty library scrolling through microfiche records, it all seems so mundane: this is what her life is now. Hunting ghosts, hunting Sam; there’s really no difference.  
  
She can’t sleep, that second night in Jericho, and she watches as the numbers on the clock by her bed click to zeroes. It’s midnight; November the second. Sam’s been gone thirty-one days. A month. Somehow, it seems so much longer than it did yesterday.  
  
She goes outside around one, because she can’t bear the prickling of her skin as it approaches the time Sam got the phone call. She has his phone with her, and she almost expects it to ring again when the time hits, but of course it doesn’t. Why would it? Thirty-one days is an arbitrary length of time. But it’s a month. Sam’s been gone a month.  
  
Around two, the door of the other room opens, and John shuffles out. She pulls her legs up onto the bench in front of her and wraps her arms round them. He watches her in the dark for a moment.  
  
“Rough night?” he says, and she thinks maybe it’s the first small talk he’s ever made with her.  
  
She shrugs. “It was month ago today,” she says, though he must know that, of course he knows that, and she doesn’t know why she said it.  
  
John nods, but he doesn’t sit down, staring out into the night at something she can’t hope to see. He looks old, older than usual, and tired, but she thinks maybe it’s just the thin light filtering through from the streetlights. “A date to remember,” he says, as if he’s talking to himself.  
  
She shivers. _I don’t want to remember this_ , she thinks. _I want this to never have happened._  
  
After a while, John shifts, glances at her briefly, and moves off into the darkness without a word. She wonders if it was Sam that was keeping him awake, too.  
  
\----  
  
All three of them are short-tempered and snappish the next morning, and she knows why she and John are, or at least the immediate physical reason why, but Dean she’s not so sure about. She didn’t see him last night; on the other hand, he doesn’t look like he slept well, but then, she can’t remember him ever looking like he slept well. She wonders if that’s just the way he looks. Sam always had trouble with nightmares and insomnia, it wouldn’t be such a surprise if it ran in the family.  
  
Around sunset, John motions them over to his computer in the library. He has a newspaper article up on screen, a smiling woman who apparently threw herself off a bridge. “This is it,” he says. “Must be. She lived a little way out of town.”  
  
Dean glances at her, then back at his father. “Let’s check it out,” he says.  
  
She watches them, how they fit around each other’s motions like they’re really just one person. She feels like an outsider, she doesn’t know how to do this, what to do next, not really. She wonders if Sam would fit in like a missing jigsaw piece if he were here, and feels a pang in her gut as she imagines him doing just that, leaving her on the outside.  
  
But Sam left them and came to her. That has to count for something.  
  
\----  
  
They see that the house is gone when they’re still some distance away, despite the gathering dusk. John mutters something under his breath, and the car swings into the wide, bare yard, the potholes making her teeth rattle in her head. She clambers out, feeling a sick, swooping sensation in her gut, because she hasn’t allowed herself to hope, to think about it at all, really, but this charred pile of ash is not what she expected at all. Beside her, Dean says _Christ_.  
  
There’s a car parked in the ruins of the house, or to be more accurate, the skeleton of a car. They pick their way through the blackened, twisted beams to reach it, and when they get there Dean shines his flashlight on the wreckage and she sees that the upholstery’s gone, the paint’s been singed away, there’s nothing left but the metal, and everywhere are unidentifiable lumps of fused material, covered in a layer of fine ash.  
  
“Someone got here first,” says John, and she knows what he’s really saying: _Sam got here first_.  
  
She turns away, because she doesn’t know what she’s seeing but she’s sure it’s bad, it’s really bad, how could it not be? The tears threaten to come then, and she’s gotten pretty good at holding them back over the last month but she’s not sure she has the strength any more. There’s a hand on her elbow then, and she looks up into Dean’s face, features unreadable in the gathering darkness.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “It doesn’t mean anything. Sam knows how to take care of himself.”  
  
She wants to believe him, God, she really does, but she thinks it’s pretty obvious that Sam _can’t_ take care of himself, because if he could, she would be back in Palo Alto with him right now, making dinner or arguing about what to watch on TV, and not standing here in the dark in the ruins of a burnt-out house. She pulls away from his touch, and he lets her go.  
  
Back in town, they hear that the house burned down three nights ago, the day before they arrived, and the timing of it makes her feel sick to her stomach. No-one witnessed the fire, they say, and the police haven’t yet had time to complete their investigation. They don’t know if anyone was inside at the time; if so, there would be nothing left of them, and at that she has to excuse herself to go to the bathroom and sit trembling in the stall, because there’s nothing left of _Sam_ , nothing but a gun behind the wardrobe and salt on the windowsill and two men who she can’t connect with, that’s all there is, and maybe now that’s all there’ll ever be.  
  
When she comes out, Dean and John are grim-faced and silent, even more so than usual, and none of them speak until John pulls into the motel forecourt and kills the engine. He sits for a moment and then says, “We’re operating under the assumption that Sam’s still alive. We’ll keep working on this until we find out what happened.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” says Dean, and she’s caught by surprise, because normally Dean doesn’t acknowledge his father’s commands out loud. Then she’s surprised again, because both of them are looking at her.  
  
“Jessica?” John says, and she takes a moment to gather her wits at this unprecedented request for her co-operation.  
  
“Yeah,” she says uneasily, then, “yes, of course, yes.”  
  
That night, she can’t sleep again, a feeling of foreboding pressing her down into the bed. It’s after midnight when she finally drifts off, November the third, and Sam’s been gone for over a month. She dreams of fire and blood.


	6. Chapter 6

They’ve been in Jericho two weeks when John decides they need to go to Salt Lake City to pick up the truck.   
  
The sound of the car’s engine wakes her at dawn, and she tumbles out of bed, struggling into her clothes and thinking _they’ve left me, Jesus, they’ve left me_ , and then there’s a knock at her door and she opens it to find Dean there. He doesn’t look her in the eye, and he says, “Me and Dad are gonna go get the truck. We should make it back by tomorrow night.”  
  
She gapes at him, because that’s two days, two days they won’t be looking for Sam. How can they stop looking for him for a fucking _truck_?   
  
Dean shifts, glances at her face and looks away again. “OK, so,” he says. “See you then, I guess.”  
  
She grabs his arm before he can walk away. “I’m coming too,” she says, because the idea of not looking for Sam for two days makes her feel panicked and grimy, but if she lets them go without her who’s to say whether they’ll come back or not? Maybe she doesn’t trust them, maybe she doesn’t even really like them, but right now, they’re all she’s got.  
  
Dean hunches his shoulders, glances over at the car, at his father. John raises an eyebrow, and there’s more impatience in that than in any amount of yelling and gesticulating (and she realises she’s starting to see the emotion in the nuances of John now, and she’s not sure that it wouldn’t be more comforting if he was still a mystery to her). “It’d probably be better if you stayed here,” Dean says, sending his father the minutest shrug (and she doesn’t miss that, either).  
  
“Better for who?” she asks.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, she’s watching Jericho pass by the windows as they head east, and feeling betrayal twist and writhe in her stomach.  
  
\----  
  
She’s never been to Utah before, never really been out of California much. She likes to stick close to home, to be near her family, that’s why she chose Stanford instead of Harvard or Yale. There’s snow on the ground, and she’s not used to that, either, not used to the way the harsh light bounces off it like tiny shards of glass, making her eyes water and her head ache. She wants to ask if they can stop for water and aspirin, but she doesn’t, because neither of them seem affected the way she is. It’s eight hundred miles from Jericho to Salt Lake City, and she can’t remember the last time she was in a car for that long. She flexes her aching back and wonders how they do it, how they live this life, _why_ they live this life.  
  
Her mouth tastes of ash the whole time they’re in Utah, which surprises her, because she expected salt, or sand, or something. The taste makes her think of the burnt-out house, with the car just sitting there, incongruous and forlorn. It doesn’t take much to make her think of that, these days. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she sees Sam drive into the house just before it goes up in flames. She wonders, not for the first time, if the blackened ground and powdery ash that they’ve tramped over for hours looking for clues has anything of Sam in it, and she just wants to get the taste out of her mouth before it suffocates her.  
  
They pass a quiet, awkward night in Salt Lake City (and really, every night has been like that now for so long that she finds she can’t always remember what warmth and friendship and laughter are like any more, and that terrifies her, because it means she’s forgetting what _Sam’s_ like), and in the morning she slides into the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean starts the engine, following the truck out of the motel parking lot. The light seems even sharper today, if anything, and she feels like she doesn’t really know why they’re going back, because they’ve been looking for two weeks and there’s been nothing to find.  
  
Dean plays crappy eighties rock in the car, a band she can’t identify, but who sound like they have more hair than brain cells. She’s surprised – up until now, they’ve always played country music, but she supposes maybe that’s John’s choice. It makes her headache worse, but she can’t decide whether to ask him to turn it down or not. He’s never been anything but polite to her, in his strange, abrasive way, and she knows he’s been trying, really trying, knows it from the way he hesitates before he speaks to her and walks on eggshells when she and John are in the same room; all the same, she can’t relax with him, not yet, maybe not ever. He’s too strange, everything he represents is shadowy and confusing, and he’s so quiet, so grim, but the few times she’s seen him smile (never happy, but smiling, sometimes), the expression has taken the breath from her lungs because it seems so wrong on his face.  
  
She rubs her forehead unconsciously, and Dean is aware of her in an instant, reaching out to shut off the music, even though she’d decided she wasn’t going to ask. “You OK?”  
  
She shrugs. “I’m fine, thank you.” It’s like talking to a distant elderly relative. She’s been living in this man’s pocket for the last two weeks, but she still feels alone.  
  
Dean turns his attention back to the road, and they drive in silence for a while. She finds her thoughts drifting in circles, always coming back to a ruined car and a layer of ash. She has to do something to break away, her thoughts are pressing against the sides of her head until she feels like she’ll explode, and finally she says, “Sam said you were mechanics.”  
  
“What?” says Dean, his forehead creasing.  
  
She laughs, but it’s not funny, not really. “He said that to me. We met in the second week of freshman year and when I asked, he said you were both mechanics. Then later on, I asked him why mechanics would have to move around so much, and he looked like he’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar.”  
  
Dean snorted. “Typical. Kid’s away from home two minutes and he forgets how to put together a decent cover story.”  
  
She laughs again, and this time there’s something genuine in it, because there’s a tone in Dean’s voice that she’s never heard there before, fondness and affection, and it makes him seem suddenly much younger, more like the twenty-six year old he actually is. “Sam can’t lie to save his life,” she says, and then she’s not laughing any more, because she realises that must just have been what Sam _wanted_ her to think, Sam’s been lying to her for years, about everything, and she never knew, never even suspected.  
  
Dean clears his throat. “I guess we know different Sams, then,” he says, but not like he’s angry, just matter-of-fact, and she thinks that that’s as close to true as anything she could come up with right now. It hurts, it hurts her to think how much there was of Sam that he never let her see, but the way Dean says it makes her think there were parts of him that he showed to her alone, parts of him that will never belong to anyone else but her, and the pain she feels doesn’t cut as deep as it might.  
  
“I can fix a mean engine, though,” Dean says. “Dad, too. He taught me. Sam was never interested.”  
  
Yes, she remembers that from one of the rare occasions when Sam talked about his family. “I don’t want to do what they do,” he said, frowning in concentration at his bottle of beer, and she didn’t interrupt, holding her breath in fear of breaking the spell. “I don’t know... I guess I just can’t imagine living that way for the rest of my life. I felt trapped, you know?” And after a moment, he looked up, laughed, and said, “Fixing cars. I mean, it’s just really... boring.”  
  
“What was Sam interested in?” she asks, because she wants to know this other Sam, this Sam that makes Dean’s voice take that tone.  
  
Dean shrugs. “Books, geek stuff. School. Stupid foreign movies. Poetry, can you believe it?” he grins, really grins, looking sideways at her, and she’s so shocked by the expression that she just stares back, and then the grin drops off his face and he looks worried. “Uh... I guess you can,” he says.   
  
She wants to tell him he didn’t offend her, but she’s not sure how, not sure that saying it straight would do anything other than make him pull away. Instead, she turns back to the road, and thinks that in that moment when Dean smiled at her unguardedly, she saw a glimpse of the Sam she wishes she knew. _Books. School. Poetry._ Maybe the two Sams aren’t so different after all.  
  
\----  
  
Once Dad got the truck back, they divided their time between Sonora, Palo Alto, and Jericho. Sometimes they would all be in the same place, sometimes Dad would go to one and Dean and Jessica would stay in another. A few times, Dean asked Jessica if maybe she wouldn’t prefer to go back to Palo Alto for good, go back to her life, but she refused so vehemently that pretty soon he stopped asking. It was strange, the three of them working together, but Dean was kind of glad that she wanted to stay, not that he would admit it to Dad. She was a pain in the ass sometimes, moody and stubborn when she wanted to be, and he still found her difficult to talk to, but she was something that belonged to those blank years of Sam’s life, something that Sam loved, and that was good enough for Dean. He also couldn’t help being silently glad that the girl Sam had chosen had enough fire in her, enough love for Sam, to stay the course. Anything else would have been beneath contempt.  
  
They spent Christmas Day in Palo Alto, partly because they’d more or less reached their limits for frustration in Jericho, partly because Jessica’s parents called and told her they were going to call the police if they didn’t see that she was OK. Dad told her to go, to stay with her family over Christmas and come back to join them in the New Year, but she refused point-blank, and so on the twenty-fifth Dad made himself scarce, and Dean would have too, except that she looked at him in the morning and said _would you like to come over for lunch_ , and Dean heard _please help me_.   
  
After an hour of Jessica’s family, Dean felt like he needed help himself. It wasn’t that they were bad people, but the sympathetic glances and the transparent attempts to ‘cheer them up’ and the _pity_ made Dean want to start shooting people. Jessica’s father shook hands with Dean with an appropriately doleful expression, wishing him his deepest condolences (as if Sam was _dead_ , for Christ’s sake), and her mother hugged and kissed him and told him how much they all loved Sam and how much they missed him, and Dean believed it, too, but he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to see this family that wasn’t _Sam’s_ family, grieving as if they had some claim on him. This family where Sam would have fit right in, would have been normal. Where Sam _had_ been normal, for a while.  
  
Yeah, definitely time for a little random violence to make himself feel better.  
  
Finally, the ordeal was over, the relatives leaving with mournful eyes, but not before Jessica’s mother begged her to go back to her studies or at least come and visit for a while at home, and Dean didn’t miss it when she lowered her voice and whispered the words _move on_. After they were gone, Jessica leaned her forehead against the door of the little apartment, and he could _hear_ her teeth grinding.  
  
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “They mean well.” _Not that that stops me from wanting to murder them, but hey._  
  
She didn’t turn round. “They just don’t get it,” she said. “They have no idea.”  
  
“No,” Dean said. _No-one gets it. No-one except us._  
  
\----  
  
It’s January the fourth ( _Sam’s been gone ninety-four days_ ) when John receives a phone call and goes outside the motel to take it. When he comes back, his face is unreadable.  
  
“I’m going up to Kentucky,” he says. “There’s a job there needs doing.”  
  
She’s on her feet in a moment, but Dean beats her to it.  
  
“Dad,” he says, “we got a job. We got a job here.”  
  
John takes a step towards his son. “Dean, that was Jerry Panowski on the phone. Remember him?” Dean nods uncertainly, and John says, “there’s something crashing planes. Killing hundreds of people. Someone needs to do something about it.”  
  
She sees Dean’s Adam’s apple bob, and she feels her heart clench, because why does _someone_ have to be _them_? How can they help Sam if they’re off in Kentucky? ( _Though more and more often these days she thinks they can’t help Sam at all_.) “Dad, no,” Dean says. “Someone else can do it. Call Jim, Caleb. We gotta stay here.”  
  
John sighs and sits on the bed so that his eyes are level with Dean’s, and once again she feels like she’s not even in the room, like she could disappear and they wouldn’t notice. “I’ll only be gone two weeks, three at the most,” he says. “We can ignore cases, Dean, but this is too big. I’m going.”  
  
Dean’s spine stiffens then, and she knows he knows when he’s beaten. She watches fear and guilt war on his face, and wonders whether it’s always been this easy to read his emotions, or if she’s just got used to him. Finally, he says, “I’m going too.”  
  
John shakes his head. “You stay here, look for your brother.”  
  
“No, sir,” Dean says, and she and John both look at him in surprise. His jaw is set. “We’re better together,” he says, but she knows that’s not what he really means, she sees the look he throws John and knows he’s thinking he’s not letting another member of his family go off without him.   
  
John looks at him for a long moment and she wonders if he sees it too. Finally, he sighs. “OK, we’ll both go. Jessica--”  
  
“I’m going too,” she says, and God, if agreeing to go to Salt Lake City made her feel like she was betraying Sam, this makes her feel like she’s dancing on his grave ( _except he doesn’t have one, he doesn’t, and he_ won’t _, not for years_ ) but she’s not risking them leaving her, doesn’t trust them to come back even now.   
  
Dean looks like he might argue, but John nods once, as if he’s satisfied, which is strange because she expected him to be angry. “Get your stuff,” he says. “We’re leaving in ten.”  
  
\----  
  
It took them four days to drive from California to Kentucky. Dean was not happy that Jessica was coming along — she was a civilian, and it was one thing teaching a civilian how to do research, but bringing one along on a hunt was just asking for trouble. Plus, if she’d stayed behind, she could have carried on looking for Sam, and the idea that no-one would be looking for at least two weeks made Dean feel like there was something gnawing away inside his stomach. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, for the first six hours out of Sonora, until Jessica said, “Are you mad at me?”  
  
Dean snorted. “What are you, five?”  
  
He felt Jessica stiffen in the seat next to him, but he didn’t look over. He was about to reach for the volume knob to try and drown out his thoughts when she said, “I’m not abandoning him any more than you are. Any more than your dad is.”  
  
“Jesus,” Dean said. “Dad’s not abandoning Sam. It’s just two weeks, for Christ’s sake.” And at the same time he pushed away the voice at the back of his mind that said she was right, that they were all abandoning Sam, that it didn’t matter how many random, faceless people were dying in plane crashes because they were abandoning _Sam_.   
  
“Right,” said Jessica, and leaned her head against the window. It was just a word, but it sounded like an accusation.  
  
Sometime around three, the truck pulled over in the middle of nowhere, and Dean pulled in behind it, climbing out and wondering what the deal was. A moment later, Dad appeared and popped the trunk.  
  
“Dad?” asked Dean  
  
“Get Jessica out here,” Dad said. When she was standing in the tall grass by the side of the road, he turned and handed her a .45. “You know how to use this?”  
  
Dean frowned, and Jessica looked down at the piece in her hand like he’d given her a snake. “No,” she said.  
  
Dad’s expression didn’t change. “Well, if you’re going to come with us, you’re going to learn,” he said, and set off across the field, striding through the grass without looking back. Dean looked at Jessica and saw the fear on her face melt into stubbornness ( _God, sometimes she reminded him so much of Sam_ ). A moment later, she was following him, and if Dean hadn’t just spent the last two months living cheek-by-jowl with her, he wouldn’t have realised she was nervous at all.  
  
\----  
  
They train for an hour every afternoon on the way to Kentucky, and by the time they get to Louisville she is, if not a dead shot, at least capable of hitting the target four times out of five, at least used to the weight and kick of a gun and the heft of a knife in her hand. On the fourth day, when she climbs back into the car and massages her aching muscles, Dean turns the key and says, “Sam always hated target practice.”  
  
She’s a little surprised by the revelation. “Why?” she asks.  
  
Dean shrugs. “Maybe because he sucked.” He sort of grins, but it’s half-hearted, like he doesn’t really remember how.  
  
She thinks about this. She’s never seen Sam suck at anything ( _she thought he sucked at lying, but she was wrong_ ). “Huh,” she says, trying to reach a cramp in her shoulder.  
  
Dean sighs and chews his lip. “He didn’t really,” he says. “He was pretty good. I always told him he sucked, though.”  
  
She pulls in a breath ( _sometimes, she thinks remembering to keep breathing is the most difficult thing_ ). “You’re his brother,” she says.  
  
Dean seems to think about this. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I am.”  
  
She watches the scenery roll by for a while; they’ll be there soon, and she wonders what it will be like, hunting for something that’s taken hundreds of lives. “What did you fight about?” she asks, and she’s been wanting to ask it for months, years even, but she’s surprised when the question rolls off her tongue.  
  
Dean glances at her sharply, then looks back at the road. He doesn’t ask for any clarifications. For a while, she thinks he won’t answer, and then he ducks his head for a moment and says, “Sam wanted to leave. Dad didn’t want him to.”  
  
 _It’s that simple?_ she thinks, but what she says is, “What did you want?”  
  
He’s silent again, for so long this time that she stops looking at him, starts watching the white lines flashing by on the road instead, so that she almost doesn’t hear him when he says _I just want my family to be safe._  
  
\----  
  
After a day or two, they worked out that it was a demon, and that it was trying to kill the survivors of the first crash. Demons were predictable that way, only really interested in death and destruction, nothing more complex in their minds than a thirst for blood. The flight attendant from the first flight was leaving Indianapolis that evening, and they were cutting it seriously close, but they screeched into the airport parking lot ten minutes before her flight was due to leave and raced into the building. Dean headed straight for the courtesy phone, but Jessica was running to the sales desk, brandishing her credit card and asking for a ticket onto the flight. Dean stopped, torn, because there was no way he wanted to get on a plane, and more importantly he wasn’t putting Jessica on a plane that was almost certainly going to crash ( _Sam would never forgive him_ ). But then the woman at the desk was shaking her head, and Jessica was arguing with her, and Dean had stopped paying attention because he’d spotted someone in the distance, going through the metal detectors, and Jesus Christ, was it, could it, no, it couldn’t, but he was running anyway, his feet slipping on the recently-polished floor, because God it looked so much like...  
  
And then there were arms stopping him, asking for his boarding pass, and he snarled, pushing them away, straining desperately to catch a glimpse of the figure he’d seen, but even he was no match for airport security and before he knew it he was standing outside in the frigid air, staring into the darkness and trying to make sense of what he thought he’d seen.  
  
“Dean?”   
  
He turned, and Jessica was standing beside him. “Are you OK?” she asked.  
  
He shook his head. “I thought... I thought I saw...”  
  
“Dammit!” Dad strode out through the glass doors. “Idiot girl wouldn’t see sense, and the flight’s booked out,” he growled.   
  
“Dad,” said Dean, “Dad, I...”  
  
Dad turned on him. “What did you think you were doing, drawing attention to yourself like that? You know they won’t let you on board without a ticket.”  
  
Dean swallowed, tried to bring the words he needed to say into focus in his mind. “Where was it going?” he asked, and his throat felt like sandpaper.  
  
“What?” Dad barked, still pissed, but Dean didn’t really care about his father’s mood right now.  
  
“The flight, Dad, Jesus!” he said. Dad stiffened, his eyes flashing, and Dean thought _shit, I don’t have time for this, we’ve got to get going_.  
  
“Seattle,” Jessica said, and they both looked at her. “What did you see?” she asked Dean.  
  
Dean breathed out. “Sam,” he said, and saying it made it real, made him sure, God, he would know Sam anywhere. “I saw Sam.”  
  
\----  
  
There are no flights going to Seattle from any of the nearby airports for more than twenty-four hours, and John growls in frustration and hurls himself into the truck, peeling out of the parking lot at a dangerous speed, Dean’s car only moments behind. They don’t stop to train or to sleep, and they make it to Seattle in just over two days, but if Sam was ever there, there’s no trace of him now. His name’s not on the passenger manifest, though neither Dean nor John are surprised by this, and the few passengers they can track down only want to talk about how the plane almost fell out of the sky and they thought they were going to die. None of them remember if there was a tall, dark-haired young man, but one says that just before the shit hit the fan, he saw the co-pilot come down the aisle and swears that his eyes looked black.  
  
“So he was definitely on the flight,” says Dean as they sit in a dingy motel room, too exhausted and sick with disappointment to sleep. John is pacing, and that alone makes her uneasy, because she’s never seen him do it before, never seen this nervous energy in that particular Winchester. Finally, he stops and slams his hand against the wall.  
  
“Goddammit, Sam,” he mutters, then grabs his coat and stalks out the door.  
  
She glances at Dean, but he shrugs, not like he’s indifferent but like he just _can’t_ any more. She knows the feeling. All the way here she berated herself for not being more observant, because Dean _saw_ Sam, why did _Dean_ see him when she didn’t? God, she’s been looking for him for months ( _a hundred and two days_ ), and he was _right there_ and she didn’t see him.  
  
Now, though, she’s angry. Sam didn’t die in the fire at Jericho, he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere, he’s walking around, apparently doing the one thing he left his family to escape, and what the _hell_ , why hasn’t he called her, why has he let her go on this long in the dark, thinking the worst? All of the secrets, all of the lies she can handle, she can deal with them, but _this_ is making her want to rip chunks of her own hair out with rage, because this isn’t _Sam_ , surely this isn’t Sam?  
  
After a while, Dean mutters something about getting coffee and leaves too, his shoulders hunched like he’s in pain. She sits there a while longer in the dark, and then she goes back to her own room and lies on the bed, staring at the lumpy ceiling. She doesn’t sleep; she can’t imagine how she ever will again.  
  
\----  
  
They keep looking, of course. Sam’s OK, that much is clear, but that doesn’t stop them from looking, from needing answers, maybe now more than ever. John’s started hunting again, though, when he hears of cases in Washington or Idaho, and he takes Dean with him when he goes, leaving her to follow the paper trail and try to track down more passengers from the flight. She still hasn’t seen anything supernatural with her own eyes, still feels that maybe this is all a dream, but when John and Dean come back bruised and bloody, with _claw_ marks on their skin, she thinks maybe she finally has to accept it. It feels like she's lost something, like the last connection between her and her old life has been severed; it hurts, and she sheds a few tears in private, but at the same time it feels like a release.  
  
She practises with the guns and knives most days, driving out to abandoned warehouses and empty farmland. Dean sometimes comes to help her. She doesn’t have the knack for it, that’s obvious from the start, but she works at it, because even now she wants to _know_ , to know what it was like for Sam growing up, and it feels like she’s improving, the progress slow and painful but progress nonetheless. Still, she feels lost, she still needs to find Sam but for the first time she doesn’t know what she’s going to do when she does, and whether she’ll just be finding him to tell him she never wants to see him again ( _except she does, God, she does_ ).  
  
It all becomes irrelevant in early February, though, when her phone rings as she and Dean are driving out to practise throwing knives in the late afternoon sunshine. Sam’s been gone a hundred and twenty-three days, and she’s long since stopped expecting him to call, but the number isn’t a familiar one, and her heart jumps anyway.  
  
It’s a man’s voice on the line, but not Sam. “Jessica Moore?” he says, and she nods before realising he can’t see her.  
  
“Yes,” she says, “who is this?”  
  
“Do you know a Sam Winchester?” he asks, and she feels every nerve in her body spring into life. She reaches out blindly, clutching at Dean’s arm, and he frowns and glances at her.  
  
“Have you seen him?” she asks. “Have you seen Sam?” and now Dean’s concentrating on her more than he is on the road.  
  
“Ms Moore,” the man says, and she knows it’s coming a moment before he says it, knows she’s about to hear the words that she’s been pretending don’t exist for a hundred and twenty-three days, but it doesn’t make it any the less devastating. “I’m sorry, ma'am. Sam Winchester is dead.”


	7. Chapter 7

She doesn’t remember how she got here, doesn’t really remember anything between the phone call and now, like she blinked and went from riding shotgun with Dean somewhere in Seattle to standing here in this room where the temperature’s ten degrees lower than the rest of the building and there’s a body in front of her on a metal table and it’s _Sam_. She doesn’t remember any of it, though it must have taken them days to drive from Washington to Missouri. She doesn’t remember it, but she’s sure as hell going to remember this, this will be what she sees in her nightmares for the rest of her life.  
  
“Ma’am?” the man asks. He’s old, older than John, with grey hair and wearing a white lab coat. The room’s lit with fluorescents, and it smells of disinfectant or formaldehyde or something. She remembers these details, will always remember them, sharp and clear and nonsensical in the ruin that her life is now.  
  
“It’s him,” she breathes, and the man nods slow, sympathetic, and starts to pull the sheet back up over Sam’s face. She reaches out to stop him. “Please,” she says, and he looks at her understandingly and steps away. John and Dean are waiting outside, she knows, waiting to hear, probably going crazy, but she just wants one more moment alone with him before she faces the rest of her life alone. She reaches out and touches his skin, touches the moles on his face, his closed eyelids, his pale lips. He feels cold, almost artificial, not like she remembers. He’s not Sam any more. Sam’s gone. Sam’s been gone a hundred and twenty-seven days. Sam’s dead.  
  
After that, the memory cuts again, and she’s sitting on a bed in a motel room staring at the wall. Dean’s there too, stretched out on the other bed, and John, sitting in the standard-issue easy chair. They’re all just staring. What else is there to do?  
  
She doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, doesn’t even know what day it is. Her back aches, and her neck, and for some reason her toes are numb. The motel room is decorated with prints of water birds. The tumblers that come with the room are made of plastic. There’s the muffled sound of arguing from the next room, and the rumble of traffic from the street. Everything seems to have a wicked edge, like if she looks too long at anything she might cut herself.  
  
She thinks about crying. She swore she wouldn’t, not in front of anyone anyway, that she woulnd’t cry in front of anyone except Sam. Tomorrow, Sam is being burned to dust and ash, and then no-one will ever cry in front of him again. But even if she went now to the morgue, if she broke down with him less than an arm’s reach away, he wouldn’t see her. So. Maybe she won’t cry. Maybe she won’t ever cry again.  
  
Dean sits up. “We need to go,” he says, and his voice is rough like he’s just smoked a pack of unfiltered cigarettes.   
  
“Go where?” she asks.   
  
Dean looks at her helplessly, like he doesn’t understand anything any more. “We gotta get food,” he says. “We need...” he trails off, and she realises she can’t remember when the last time she ate was, can’t remember if she even has eaten since the phone call ( _Sam Winchester is dead_ ), though she must have, she supposes. Still, she’s not hungry.  
  
Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Dad,” he says, “I’m gonna go get some provisions, OK?”  
  
John doesn’t move; it’s like he hasn’t even heard his son. Dean walks over to him and puts a hand on his arm. “Dad?”  
  
John looks up then, puts his hand over Dean’s but doesn’t speak. She’s surprised to see his mask crack, see his eyes glitter with moisture. He looks devastated, wrung out and ground up, and she wonders if she looks the same. She thinks maybe she looks more like Dean, shell-shocked, numb. The devastation will come later.  
  
Dean squeezes his father’s shoulder, turns his face away. A moment later he’s gone, and she’s left alone with her thoughts and the man whose son she once thought she was going to marry.   
  
\----  
  
It’s clear and bitterly cold as Sam burns, and she thinks that at least _he_ won’t be cold, he always felt the cold more than she did, even though she was a California girl, always wore several layers even in summer. It’s absurd, she realises, to be grateful for the flames, because they’re not keeping him warm, they’re _burning_ him, but if she starts to think about that she thinks she might lose her mind, so she concentrates instead on staring at the sun glinting off the snow until her eyes water.   
  
It’s just the three of them at the cremation. She remembers that Becky and Zack’s family live in St. Louis, but she doesn’t call them; the police say Sam’s murdered ten people, and even though she knows it isn’t true, she doesn’t want to deal with the fact that other people, other people who _know_ Sam ( _who knew Sam_ ) might have the tiniest doubt. She doesn’t want to hate her friends, not today, and so she doesn’t call them.  
  
Afterwards, the custodian of the crematorium holds out an urn to John, who stares at it like he has no idea what it is. Eventually, Dean steps forward and takes it. Neither of them are wearing suits; she’s wearing an ugly black dress that looks like it came from Goodwill, though she has no idea how or when she came by it. The cold gnaws at her skin on the way from the building to the car, but she doesn’t put on her coat.  
  
Dean drives them back; they’re all in the same car, and she thinks maybe Dean stopped John from driving the truck, though she doesn’t remember witnessing the conversation. She sits in the back seat with Sam. Sam, who used to sprawl across her bed, across her life, and now takes up no space at all.  
  
They don’t scatter the ashes. They don’t talk about it, but she carries Sam into the motel room, cradling him in her arms, feeling the cool solidness of the urn, and places him on the table. She doesn’t know where he would like to be, where he would want to spend forever, except by her side, and so she doesn’t bring it up. Dean sits on the bed and puts his head in his hands; the stunned look hasn’t left his face yet, but it’s been joined by a growing terror. John is silent, and she thinks he hasn’t spoken a word since she told them the news without having to say a word outside the morgue, although of course she can’t remember. She feels the air pressing down on her, tastes ash in her mouth again and this time she knows, and when Zack said not knowing was the worst thing he was wrong, because now she knows, and _knowing_ is definitely the worst thing.  
  
Then she’s outside, her fingers turning red with cold, and she doesn’t know how she got there. Dean’s standing in front of her, and it’s like they’re in the middle of a conversation, and she has a vague memory of it, of the way his voice rumbles, his intonation patterns, but she doesn’t know what’s been said.  
  
“I remember,” he says, and she wonders what he’s referring to.  
  
“Remember what?” she asks, and her throat hurts like she’s been screaming.  
  
“What it was like last time.” Dean glances towards the door of the motel. “Mom... he didn’t handle it well.”  
  
 _How is it possible to handle this_ well _?_ she wonders, but she doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Somebody has to make sure he stays alive,” he says, and she realises then, she thinks maybe she was yelling at Dean, because Dean’s the one who’s been pushing them to eat, to sleep, to carry on, like it’s possible to carry on, like it’s possible to _be_. Dean’s the one stopping them from drowning, and she thinks that maybe sometimes she hates him for that.  
  
“What about Sam?” she says ( _Sam Winchester is dead_ ), and he looks away, but not before she sees a look on his face that she feels deep in her gut like a knife, that wants to make her throw up because she realises suddenly that Sam is _dead_ , Sam is dead and Dean is clinging on by a thread, and somehow it didn’t seem real before but now it does. She gapes at him, stunned by the force of the realisation, but he isn’t looking at her.  
  
“Sam’s gone,” he says, and he sounds like he’s just been given a life sentence. “He’s not coming back.”  
  
She wants to argue, wants it so hard, to say _no, you’re wrong, don’t_ look _like that goddammit_ , but all she can do is watch as he walks away.  
  
\----  
  
Sam’s been dead for a week ( _Sam’s been gone a hundred and thirty days_ ) when she closes her eyes and sees his pale face on the backs of her eyelids and realises that she needs to know. She needs to know who did this, why they did it, what Sam’s life was like in those last few moments. It isn’t hard; she asks Dean for help, and he seems both relieved and disappointed, glancing towards his father like he was waiting for the words but they came from the wrong person. John just sits silent, eyes turned inwards; he hasn’t spoken for days.  
  
Dean gets hold of the autopsy report without any trouble (the police refused to give them the full report because Sam is the subject of an ongoing investigation, because they think Sam is a serial killer, which just goes to show that police are just as clueless in St. Louis as in Palo Alto). He starts to read it, but she takes it from him, because _God_ she doesn’t want to read the details, she threw up dissecting frogs in high school for Christ’s sake, but this is _Sam_ , Sam needs her ( _Sam’s dead_ ) and she’s not going to let her own horror get in the way of that. Dean gives the report up easily, like he can’t bear to read it. She knows how he feels.  
  
And then, on the second page (and before the descriptions of the state of Sam’s internal organs, _thankGodthankGod_ ) she sees something strange. The cause of death is listed as gunshot wound to the chest ( _three. Three_ gunshot wounds to the chest), fired at point-blank range. Sam supposedly died instantly.  
  
The bullets were made of silver.  
  
“Dean,” she says, and Dean looks up, he’s been sitting with his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped, like he’s praying, and when he looks up she sees his eyes are red-rimmed, even though she doesn’t think he’s been crying.  
  
“What is it?” he asks.  
  
She tries to remember everything he’s told her, everything she’s learned over the past months, and two weeks ago it would have all been there, the information at her fingertips, but these days she sometimes thinks she can’t even remember her own name. “Silver,” she says slowly, not wanting to go too fast because if she’s wrong, if she’s wrong and she lets herself hope only to lose it again, she thinks she might not survive it. “It’s what you use on shape-shifters, right?”  
  
Dean frowns. “Yeah.What about it?”  
  
Silently, she passes the report over, points at the spot.  
  
Dean stares. He stares for so long she thinks maybe he’s gone into a trance. Then suddenly he jumps to his feet and _runs_ the three strides across the room to where his father is sitting. “Dad,” he says. “Dad.”  
  
\----  
  
They stayed in St. Louis after that, researching what had happened and trying to find any clues as to where Sam might have gone. Once they realised (once they _realised_ , God), it was pretty easy to put it all together, checking out the police reports, the crimes supposedly committed by loved ones and later pinned on Sam, the thefts of clothing – it was so _obvious_ , Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before (except _before_ was not something he wanted to think about). Jessica started training again. Dad started eating again. Life was back to normal – and the fact that this was normal for them now, Dean and Dad and Sam’s _girlfriend_ for Christ’s sake, sifting through endless information for that one little thing that would tell them _where_ (that maybe, maybe would tell them _why_ ), that was something else that Dean didn’t want to think about, because it made him feel like everything was out of control and there was no way to stop it (but Sam wasn’t dead, he _wasn’t dead_ , and that, at least, was something Dean could grasp, something he could hold on to when he couldn’t sleep at night and all he could think of was how hard the sky had been the day they burned Sam’s body).  
  
A few days after they realised, Dean came back to the motel to find Jessica outside, holding the urn in her hands, staring at it with such venom that he thought really it ought to burst into flames right there. He stepped towards her cautiously.  
  
“Hey,” he said, eyes going from her to the urn. “Got a beef with that thing?”  
  
She looked up, and even though they _knew_ now, she still looked like crap, her hair greasy and stringy, face pale and thinner than it had been six months ago, dark circles under her eyes. _I look like that_ , Dean thought, and wondered why he hadn’t seen it in her, in either of them, before now.   
  
“It’s not Sam,” she said, and despite the vicious hatred on her face, her voice was dead and flat.  
  
Dean nodded. _It’s not Sam. God, it’s_ not _Sam._ “Guess it’s just a piece of crap vase full of dust now.” _The thing that’s in it murdered ten people._  
  
Jessica nodded once, and then hurled the urn at the concrete. Dean thought it wouldn’t break – it was pretty poor-quality ceramic, thick and uneven – but he must have underestimated the force of Jessica’s anger, because it cracked into three pieces. The ash spilled out over the ground, the wind picking some of it up and swirling it away. Dean stirred the pile with his foot, then cleared his throat and spat a satisfying gob onto it. Jessica looked at him and grinned. “It’s not Sam,” she said.  
  
“No,” agreed Dean. “It’s not.”  
  
\----  
  
The days go by, and the weeks, and Sam’s not dead, but Sam’s not _here_ either, and they’re no closer to finding him than they were in Seattle, or Jericho, or Palo Alto. Once the shock and the relief have worn off, she begins to wonder if maybe this will be her life forever now, a few months in one place and then a sighting of Sam, a crazed dash across the country only to find him gone without a trace, and another faceless city to frustrate them with its dead ends. Her mother calls her, worried, desperate even, and tells her they won’t enable her denial any more, that her credit card bills are her own problem now. A week later, Dean hands her a card in the name of _Sarah Pullum_ , and she takes it, because this is her life now, for better or worse.   
  
They sleep in the same room after that, the three of them, taking tunrs to sleep on the pull-out cot (because she insisted that she would take her turn just like them). She has no privacy any more, and occasionally it makes her want to scream, to just get on a bus and find a place where there’s a few square feet that is just _hers_ , but most of the time she just deals with it, like she deals with everything else. One day she looks in the mirror, and her hair is barely presentable, her face pale without make-up, her fingernails bitten down. She cuts off her hair, not all of it, but enough; it only gets in the way anyway.  
  
Sam’s been gone a hundred and fifty-three days when she’s sitting in the car ( _it’s an Impala_ , Dean told her a week ago when she said _the old car_ to differentiate it from the truck, and she remembers thinking how strange, that something so predatory could be named after a deer), John in the driver’s seat, waiting for Dean to come out of the library, and suddenly she can’t take it any more. “How do you do it?” she asks.  
  
John glances over at her, his expression unchanged, but he’s surprised, she can tell that now (she knows more about John Winchester than she ever wanted to). “Do what?” he asks.  
  
“Sam’s mom,” she says. “All this time... God, I just don’t know how to do this, he’s only been gone five months and I...” she stops. She didn’t mean to speak to him, didn’t mean to tell him that, but it’s too late now.  
  
John looks back at the library door, always watching, always aware of where his son is. “I had two boys that needed me,” he says, and she’s amazed, amazed that he dignifies her outburst with a response at all. “I won’t tell you it gets easier, because it doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse. You start to forget things.” His jaw tenses, and she holds her breath, doesn’t move a muscle, because she thinks this might be the longest speech he’s ever directed at her and she’s afraid to remind him she’s there. “But you can’t give in to it,” he continues. “Sam needs you.”  
  
 _Sam doesn’t need me_ , she thinks. _Sam left me. Sam could find me any time if he wanted._ She doesn’t say it, though, because saying it might make it real. “What if we never find him?” she asks, because Sam’s only been gone a hundred and fifty-three days, but John’s been searching for his wife’s killer for twenty-two years and found nothing.  
  
John doesn’t look at her. “We’ll keep searching until we do,” he says.  
  
Later, she thinks that Dean would have said _don’t worry, we will_ , and she realises that John has no such illusions.  
  
\----  
  
It’s the beginning of April ( _Sam’s been gone a hundred and eighty-two days_ ) when John’s phone rings just as he’s chewing her out for throwing her knife (she has her own knives now, _Christ_ ) like it’s a toy. He glares at her as he fishes the phone out of his pocket, and she glares back, because she’s _trying_ , she’s trying so hard, but she just can’t seem to make her body do what John wants it to do. Dean stands off to one side and watches them, and at times like these she always wonders what he’s thinking.  
  
“Hello,” John barks into the phone, and whatever the reply is, it’s loud enough for her to hear the annoyed tone, if not make out the words, from where she’s standing. John stiffens, almost like he’s coming to attention. “Missouri,” he says, and she frowns, because they’re already in Missouri. “No,” says John, and then, “What?” After that, he listens for a long moment and says, “Are you sure?” in a low, urgent tone. The reply this time is loud enough for her to hear that it’s a woman, and she’s surprised, because she’s never heard anyone take that tone with John and not live to regret it (and she has some experience in these matters), but John just grunts and says “We’ll be there by morning.”  
  
She exchanges a glance with Dean, because it’s already late afternoon, the sun’s just sunk behind the horizon, and they’re all tired, tired from training and searching and not sleeping, tired from _living_.   
  
“Dad?” Dean says. He’s always the one to ask the questions these days, because she’s learned that the way she asks things, the anger she’s constantly trying to fight back just makes almost every conversation she has with John end with both of them twitching with frustration.  
  
“Dean,” John looks at the phone in his hand for a minute, then puts it back in his pocket. “We’re going to Lawrence.”  
  
Dean’s eyes open wide, and he actually takes a step back, and she wonders whatcould be so horrible about that. A moment later she remembers how Sam used to always shrug and smile self-deprecatingly and say _all over, really_ when people asked him where he was from, but one time he said _Lawrence, Kansas_.   
  
Dean swallows hard, and she can tell he wants to argue. “Dad, why?”  
  
John turns his eyes on Dean, and whatever Dean sees there makes him fall back another step, his freckles standing out against his skin.   
  
“There’s something in our old house,” says John.  
  
\----  
  
They arrived in Lawrence just as the sun was rising, and Dean felt his hands tighten on the wheel as they passed the sign for the city limits. Jessica was sleeping beside him, one arm up, pillowed between her head and the window, her breath misting the glass. Up ahead, the truck made a left, and Dean followed, looking out at the suburban houses, the neat lawns, the churches silhouetted against the brightening sky. So this was Lawrence. It didn’t look like he remembered, but then, the main thing he remembered was smoke in his lungs and screaming sirens and his father’s tears in his hair and the weight of his brother in his arms. He’d carried Sam out of the house that night, and he hadn’t stopped carrying him for eighteen years, hadn’t stopped until Sam struggled out of his arms and pushed him away. And now here he was, back at the beginning, full circle, but everything was different, there was no fire, no smoke. There was no Sam.  
  
The truck pulled up in front of a house that looked like all the others on the street, and Dean pulled in behind, reaching an arm over to shake Jessica awake. There was a woman waiting on the stoop, a black woman of indeterminate age, and she clambered to her feet as they got out, coming down the steps towards them.   
  
“John Winchester,” she said, her voice high and lilting. “You look terrible.”  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow, at the familiarity if nothing else, but Dad just allowed himself to be hugged, even hugged back. The woman disengaged herself and then turned to Dean.  
  
“Now, Dean, don’t be like that,” she said. “Your father and I are old friends, even if he never told you about me. My,” she added, glancing over to Dad, “this one sure grew up handsome.”   
  
Dean frowned and opened his mouth, but the woman turned back to him, sharp as a whip, and said, “Don’t you even think about saying that, Dean Winchester,” and Dean just found himself gaping.  
  
Finally, the woman turned to Jessica and took her hand. “Honey,” she said, “I’m so sorry about Sam. I know it’s hard, sugar.”  
  
Jessica stared at her. “Do I know you?” she asked, and she sounded pretty much as confused as Dean felt.  
  
“This is my friend Missouri,” Dad spoke up. “And in case you hadn’t worked it out, she’s psychic.”  
  
\----  
  
The house is painted white, and there’s a gnarled old tree outside it that looks like something out of a horror movie. Maybe Dean feels the same way, because he’s staring at it like he’s seen a ghost. Except if anyone should be able to deal with horror movies, it’s Dean Winchester.  
  
“Are you OK?” she asks, and Dean twitches like he’d forgotten she was there.   
  
“Uh,” he says, and clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”  
  
“Your dad’s waiting,” she points out. John is standing out on the road, a silhouette in the glow of the streetlights. She can see he’s staring at the house too, and she wonders what they see when they look at it, and whether they see the same thing.  
  
A light goes on in an upstairs room, and Dean growls. “Crap,” he says, “I thought they all went out.”  
  
“Me too.” She watches as a shadow passes the window. They’ve been sitting here all day, and the mom and the two kids definitely left about an hour ago. She hears Missouri’s breathless voice in her mind. _I’ve felt it, I don’t know if it’s what took Mary, but it’s strong, it’s so strong._ She thinks of the smiling woman she’s seen in the photo that Sam kept on the dresser, imagines her burning on the ceiling, and shudders. The thing that did that might be in there.  
  
“Stay in the car,” Dean says, and rifles through his box of IDs. “We’ll tell them there’s a gas leak or something.”  
  
She watches them as they go up the steps, both of them walking slowly, reluctantly. Dean rings the doorbell and waits. There’s no answer. Dean rings again, and knocks, and then she hears him shout “Hey, hey! There’s a gas leak, people!” and she thinks probably they should have let her do the talking. Still, there’s no answer, and then Dean bends down to pick the lock, and then straightens and tries the door. It doesn’t open, and a moment later she sees John and Dean look at each other and then Dean comes running back to the car, popping the trunk. She gets out, then, because this isn’t supposed to be how it goes, and she can’t just sit and watch it all from behind the windshield.  
  
“Dean?” she asks, but Dean doesn’t look at her.  
  
“There’s something going on in there,” he says, pulling an axe out from under a pile of rifles. “Stay in the car.”   
  
She watches him run back to his father and go to work on the door, swinging the axe against the wood with measured movements. She leans against the car, not willing to get back inside, but not wanting to get in their way, either, at least until she sees a tell-tale flickering light in a downstairs window and feels her stomach lurch.   
  
“Fire,” she says, and then, louder, “Dean! Something’s on fire!”  
  
Dean glances at the window, and then redoubles his efforts with the axe, and the door’s starting to splinter. She steps forward in spite of herself, and catches John’s eye where he’s standing out of the way of Dean’s back-strokes. He looks like death warmed up, and that’s an unfortunate phrase in the circumstances.  
  
And then, just like that, the flickering light is gone, and she’s frowning, wondering what’s going on, whether whoever was in there is nothing but ash now (and it seems like her life always comes back to this, ash covering every surface like memory), thinking about going to help them, when the door opens suddenly and Dean freezes half-way through a stroke, and then the axe falls from his grip and clatters on the ground, but she doesn’t hear it, she doesn’t hear anything, because there’s a man standing in the doorway and she recognises him, would recognise him even in a crowd of thousands.  
  
Sam’s been gone a hundred and eighty-three days.  
  
But he’s not gone any more.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean felt his fingers lose their grip on the axe, and a voice somewhere at the back of his mind said _always pay attention to your hands, son, accidental death is still death_ , but he ignored it, he could hardly hear it past the rushing in his ears, because there was the door, open, and there. There was Sam. He tried to move, tried to make himself speak, and Sam looked at him, _looked_ Jesus Christ, Sam was right there and _looking_ at him, opening his mouth to speak, and Dean was vaguely aware that he was stretching out a hand to touch Sam because maybe he was just dreaming, maybe Sam was going to melt away.   
  
Then Dean felt his father’s presence move in behind him, and he wanted to say _look, Dad, it’s Sammy, Sammy’s come back to us_ , but he still couldn’t seem to get his voice working, and Sam’s eyes had slid off his face and were looking behind him, and then his expression suddenly froze and Dean _knew_ , a moment before it happened he _knew_ that it wasn’t over.  
  
And then Sam slammed the door in their faces.  
  
“Shit!” Dean’s voice was working again, it seemed. He grabbed the door handle and tugged, was aware that Jessica had appeared behind him, asking questions, her voice rising towards hysteria, but he didn’t care about that right now because the door was locked, it was _fucking_ locked and Sam was inside and he had _locked_ it, he was alive, he was _right there_ and he had _locked_ the fucking door.  
  
No time to worry about that now. “I’m going round the back, see if there’s another way out,” he said, and didn’t even need to check to see if Dad agreed because he knew it was the right thing to do, Dad was fast but Dean was faster, and someone needed to stay here to make sure Sammy didn’t double back. He didn’t wait to see Dad pick up the axe, just flung himself past Jessica and down the steps, moving as fast as he could while still checking the side of the house, because if he missed a way out, if he missed Sam, there was no way he would find him again in the dark maze of suburbia.   
  
There were no openings, no windows or doors along the side of the house, and Dean hoped that meant that the other side would be the same. He worried for a brief moment about Sam heading out the other side while he was investigating the back, but that became irrelevant when he took the corner and saw a tall figure leaping the back fence into the next yard. Shit. Dean was fast, but Sam was faster, his longer legs giving him the advantage. On the other hand, Dean was desperate, more desperate than he’d ever been in his life before.  
  
The fence wasn’t a problem, and neither was the next one, and Dean just about managed to keep Sam’s running form in sight, but he wasn’t gaining, if anything he was losing ground, little by little, every time he hurled himself into a new yard Sam was that much closer to already being over the next fence and out of sight, and Dean felt despair burn in his lungs because he couldn’t lose Sammy again, he _couldn’t_.  
  
Then they were out on a road, no cars at that time of night, and Sam’s shadow racing in and out of the pools of light thrown by the streetlamps, and Dean knew he was going to lose, because out on a flat, straight stretch like this was where Sam’s goddamn speed really gave him the advantage. He wanted to yell, wanted to scream at Sam to stop, but he needed to conserve his oxygen, needed to just _concentrate_ on forcing his legs to move faster, putting all his brainpower into each step, until he’d almost forgotten why he was running in the first place, until there was nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears and his vision had narrowed to a single image, a single dark form always ahead, always just out of reach.   
  
And then Sam’s foot hit something wrong, and Sam went down, and he struggled back up again immediately, but the stumble was all Dean had needed, he was only a few steps behind now and before Sam had a chance to pick up speed again he was on him, tackling him round the waist and allowing his arms to slip down and tighten around Sam’s legs until both of them were falling forward, until Dean hit the concrete hard, feeling grit fly up into his eyes, but there was no time ot worry about that right now, he had to press his advantage, and he knew how, he’d done it enough times before, so many times _before_. He disengaged his arms from Sam’s legs and crawled up over him before Sam had a chance to throw him off, and Sam was trying to flip over underneath him, succeeding too, but that was OK, Dean could handle that, _go on, Sammy, waste your time doing that, that’s right, just like you always do_ , and then Dean was sitting on Sam’s chest with his knees on Sam’s elbows and looking down and oh Jesus it was _Sam_ , it was really _Sam_.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dean whispered, suddenly feeling like his lungs weren’t working properly. “What the fuck, Sammy? What the _fuck_?”  
  
“Dean,” Sam said. “Dean, don’t. Don’t.”  
  
Dean stared. He’d almost been expecting Sam to somehow be mute, for it all to be a trick, but at the sound of his brother’s voice he felt six months of terror and anger and guilt and exhaustion come crashing down so hard, it was all he could do to remain sitting upright.   
  
“Don’t?” he said, hearing his voice rise in incredulity. “ _Don’t_? Is that all you can say to me, Sammy? Jesus _Christ_ , you just walk off in the middle of the night without a word, you stay away for six months, you don’t even call to let us know you’re OK and you say _don’t_? Fuck, Sam, we thought you were _dead_ , you goddamn bastard!”  
  
Sam stared at him, mouth moving silently, face full of fear, and for some reason seeing that just made Dean even more enraged. “Jesus,” he said, grabbing Sam’s shirtfront and hauling on it, pulling Sam up as close as his knees on Sam’s elbows would allow. “The only reason I’m not kicking your ass right now is that I think Dad’s probably gonna want first crack at it.”   
  
“Dad,” whispered Sam, and Dean heard himself growl.  
  
“You’re damn right, Dad,” he said, and remembered the hopeless slump of his father’s shoulders back in St. Louis. “When he gets here, you’ll be lucky if you live to see tomorrow.”  
  
As if on cue, there was a shout from behind them, and Dean twisted his upper body, waving his arm. “Here,” he called. “We’re here.” _We. Us. Both of us._  
  
There was the sound of rapid footsteps against asphalt, and then Dad and Jessica appeared out of the shadows, breathing heavily. When they saw Dean ( _when they saw_ Sam) both stopped short, and Dean clambered off his brother, keeping a hand latched around his arm in case he tried to make another break for it. Sam scrambled to his feet and took a step forward, towards Jessica, who was staring at him with an expression of mixed shock and devastation. He reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers against her hair.  
  
“You cut it,” he whispered, and a silent tear slid down Jessica’s cheek.  
  
“Yeah,” she said. “I cut it.”  
  
“I missed you,” said Sam, and he sounded so utterly lost that Dean almost wanted to comfort him, until he remembered who it was who’d put them all in this position. He shot a glance at his father, who was standing back, jaw tightly clenched, giving them a little space, for Jessica’s sake, Dean realised, not for Sam’s.  
  
“Then why? Why didn’t you come find me?” Jessica asked, and her fingers found their way up to Sam’s, entwining in them.  
  
Sam’s face twitched, and he frowned. “I did. I came here, that’s what... I wanted to see you. I came here.” He pulled his hand away from Jessica’s and brushed another tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry, Mom. I’m here now. It’s OK.”  
  
\----  
  
She can’t speak. It’s like everything in her body has suddenly frozen stiff, like there’s ice choking her windpipe and curving down her spine, freezing it until it breaks apart. She’s almost surprised to find her tears haven’t frozen on her cheeks ( _she said she wouldn’t cry in front of anyone but Sam, and now here she is, and she can’t stop the tears any more_ ), and she reaches up a shaking hand and pushes Sam’s touch away, feels the absence of it on her skin like it’s left a scar, but he said, he _said_ , and now she doesn’t know any more, doesn’t know anything.  
  
Dean’s got his hand locked around Sam’s upper arm, and he pulls now, gently, and says, “Sam, what are you talking about?” It’s dark, they’re just outside the pool of one of the streetlights, so she can’t see his expression, but the light that leaks in from the porches glints off his eyes and they’re too bright.   
  
“Sam.” John’s voice is like a gunshot, even though it isn’t any louder than theirs, and they all turn towards the source. John is even further from the light than the rest of them, but she doesn’t need to see him to feel the emotion radiating from him, and he strides forward and she thinks he’s going to break now, that he’s going to physically attack Sam and she wonders what she’ll do, what Dean will do, but then John has his arms around Sam and is holding him so tight, so close, that somehow he manages to make Sam look small, look like a child. John holds him for a long moment, and Sam’s arms are just beginning to creep around his father’s back when John steps back, pushes Sam out until he’s at arm’s length, and says “You’d better have a damn good explanation for this, boy, or I swear to God you’ll regret you were ever born.”  
  
She wants to break in, because Sam said, he _said_ , and she wants to know that Sam can see her, that he sees her, that it was just a mistake. But Sam is shaking his head and looking at Dean, looking like he expects Dean to be on his side, and he’s caught up in them, now, Dean’s hand around his arm, John’s on his shoulder, the three of them forming a single whole, the claims of blood marking them, and she’s on the outside, she who has given up everything to find him, she’s left behind.  
  
“Let me...” Sam says, and he shrugs at the grasp his family has on him, tries to pull away.  
  
“Oh, no, not this time,” says Dean, and steps closer.   
  
Then Sam looks past Dean, looks at her with a pleading expression that she would recognise no matter _how_ dark it was, and says, “Mom, please. I need to go.”  
  
John’s head snaps round in an instant, and she thinks maybe he didn’t hear when Sam said it the first time. They’re all looking at her now, John incredulous, Sam pleading, Dean scared. She swallows, and it feels like her throat is full of broken glass.  
  
“Sam,” she says. “Sam, baby, it’s me. Don’t you recognise me?” Her voice breaks a little on the word _baby_ , she’s wondered so many times what she will do when she gets to this moment, if she ever gets to this moment, and now she’s here and she still doesn’t know.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Of course I do. You’ve got to make Dad let me go. He’ll listen to you.”  
  
She feels lost. She thought of so many things, so many ways it could go, imagined Sam explaining _why_ , imagined holding him, crying; in darker times she imagined finding him dead or with someone else; but she never, never imagined that he would look at her and not know her, and it hurts like someone dragging their fingernails through her heart.  
  
“Sam, stop fooling around,” John snaps. “That’s not your mother, it’s your girlfriend.”   
  
Sam looks at his father, and it’s so strange, because Sam is taller than John but it still seems like he looks up. He looks bewildered. “I came to see her. I told you already. Didn’t you listen?”  
  
“What?” says John, and the sharpness in his voice is just increasing, and Dean says _Dad, please, there’s something wrong, something’s wrong with him_ , and he’s moved even closer to his brother now, is pressed against his side like somehow he can make it right that way, like he can push all his strength into Sam through the contact between them.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds confused now, upset. “Dean, you said I shouldn’t. I didn’t do it, Dean, I promise.”  
  
“Sh, Sam, it’s OK,” Dean says gently. “I know you didn’t, I know.” And she stares at him, because what is he _talking_ about, what is _Sam_ talking about, Sam who looks at her and doesn’t even see her, sees instead the fourth member of the family that she is excluded from, Sam who shared his life with her for years and then walked away like it didn’t even matter.   
  
“Dean,” she says, “what...?” and Dean looks at her and shrugs with this look on his face of utter helplessness, and she realises he doesn’t know either, he’s not using some secret code with Sam, he’s as lost as she is, and for some reason that makes her feel better, that she’s not alone in the dark.  
  
“Dad,” Dean says, “we’ve got to get him out of here. Maybe some sleep...” And John nods once and turns and strides away into the darkness. She’s left with the two of them, the man she’s shared her life with for six months and the one she wants to share it with forever, and she doesn’t know either of them, not really.   
  
When John comes back with the truck, none of them have said a single word.  
  
\----  
  
Sam whispers in the back seat.   
  
She can’t hear what he’s saying over the noise of the engine, though sometimes she thinks it’s directed at her. She doesn’t know what to do when he looks at her like he’s expecting an answer; if this was a stranger, a man talking to himself on a bus or a park bench, she would nod and smile and try not to make eye contact, but this is _Sam_ , and she doesn’t want to humour him, to act like he’s insane, so she says nothing and just looks back, and his eyes plead with her but she doesn’t know what he wants.  
  
She wonders if John and Dean are aware of the whispering. They can’t hear it, that’s for sure, but she thinks they know anyway, thinks they know every move Sam makes, every little twitch and sigh. She wonders what they think about it. She wonders what she thinks.  
  
Sam allows himself to be led into the motel room and sits on the bed when asked. In the dark, he looked like Sam, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair a little longer than when he left ( _walked out_ ), but no different otherwise. In the grimy light of the motel, he looks wrong. His face is pale and pinched, dark bruises under his eyes, and his hair isn’t just long, it’s greasy and lank, and looks like it’s been hacked off with a kitchen knife. The clothes he’s wearing are torn and filthy, and he smells, she realises, she didn’t notice it before but there it is. _It’s not him_ , she thinks for a moment, because the Sam she remembers was lithe and confident and glowing, but then she tries to remember his face more clearly, that Sam, and she sees only the vaguest impression of features, of bright teeth and soulful eyes. This Sam’s eyes glitter with something that she’s not ready to identify yet. It’s not him, but it is.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says quietly, and he’s sitting in front of Sam on a hard chair, bending his head to peer into Sam’s eyes. John is standing against the door like a statue, the darkness of his hair and coat making him look like a shadow. She’s not even sure what she’s doing, except that she notices she’s wringing her hands and makes herself stop.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, like he’s just noticed Dean for the first time. “Dean, it’s good to see you.”  
  
John’s jaw clenches, but Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “You too, kiddo,” he says. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”  
  
She wants to go there too, wants to be the one asking Sam, the one to figure it all out; she doesn’t, because she’s not sure she can take it if he looks at her in the light and sees his mother.  
  
“Poltergeist,” says Sam. “Can you believe it? That’s all it was in the end, Dean, God, I thought it would be the thing that killed her, you know?”  
  
Dean looks round at his father in confusion, but John shrugs minutely, a tiny move of the head, just enough to tell Dean that he’s no better off than they are.   
  
“Dean,” says Sam, and leans forward, and she finds herself leaning too, because she wants to hear whatever it is he’s going to say, even though she thinks it’s probably going to hurt like hell.  
  
“Yeah?” says Dean, but he shoots her a glance that makes her think he’s about to lose it.  
  
“I saw her,” Sam says, his voice a whisper as if there’s anyone in the room who might not be able to hear. “She was right there. She saved me.”  
  
“Who?” says Dean.  
  
Sam looks around and then lowers his voice even further, and she wonders suddenly if he can even see them at all, she and John, two shadows hovering at the edge of this scene, two people watching a relationship that they're afraid to touch. “Mom,” Sam says, and Dean’s hands twitch in his lap, and John lets out an explosive breath that has Sam jumping out of his skin and scrambling back across the bed.  
  
“I didn’t, I didn’t,” says Sam, and then he looks at John and his eyes roll wildly in his head. “Dad,” he says. “Dean, Dad’s here, Dad’s _here_.”  
  
“Hey, hey!” Dean is following Sam over the bed, grabbing his arm. “It’s OK, it’s OK, Sam, we know you didn’t. Dad’s here to help you. We all want to help, me and Dad and Jessica.” He emphasises the last word, grabbing Sam’s chin and turning his head so that he’s facing her. Sam’s eyes widen, and he gapes.  
  
“Jess,” he whispers, and she almost flinches, because that’s her Stanford name, no-one except her college friends use it, no-one’s called her that for five months, and it almost physically hurts to hear it. She forgets that hurt pretty soon, though, because Sam is grabbing Dean’s wrists and saying “No, Dean, no, get her out of here, make her leave, _please_ Dean make her leave.”  
  
Dean stares back at Sam and says “Sam, Jessica’s been looking for you, we’ve all been looking, man, we’ve been looking for months. She wants to help you.”  
  
But Sam’s crying now, he’s actually _crying_ , and he’s not making any sense any more, just babbling incoherently, and she can’t take it any more, not being recognised was one thing but this feels like her entire world is crumbling to ash. “I’m going,” she says. “I’m going.” And she heads for the door blindly. John steps out of the way for her and she hears Dean say _wait_ , but she doesn’t stop, she can’t stop, she can’t watch this any more. She doesn’t stop walking until she’s two blocks away from the motel, and then she sits down on a step, feeling the cold stone and remembering another time when she still thought that maybe they would find Sam and everything would be OK. She tries to remember even before that, when Sam wasn’t even gone, when he was just Sam and there were no ghosts or demons, just inexplicable scars and a huge laugh and a future that never seemed in doubt, but she finds she can’t, she knows intellectually that these things once existed but she can no longer find the memories inside her, just like she can’t remember what Sam looked like when he was still _Sam_.   
  
It’s a cold night, and there are no stars, but it’s not cold enough to freeze the tears she cries before they hit the ground, and she feels that that’s somehow wrong, like the world’s not trying hard enough. But nothing would be enough now. Sam’s been gone a hundred and eighty-three days, but he’s not gone any more.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam’s asleep by the time she goes back, curled under the covers on the bed furthest from the door. Dean glances up when she opens the door, then over at his father. She can’t even see John move at all, but he must have made some gesture, because Dean gets up and comes over, moving her gently but firmly back out into the cold.  
  
They go to the truck (the car – the _Impala_ – is still parked outside their old house) and Dean puts the heater on. He shifts a couple of times, doesn’t look at her, and she thinks this is it, Sam’s said he doesn’t want her around so now they’re going to tell her to get lost. Everything she’s done, all the sleepless nights and aching muscles, the training in back fields and the searching through archive records, none of it means anything now Sam wants her gone.  
  
Dean rolls his shoulders and says “We’re gonna get another room.”  
  
She doesn’t know what to say. What does that even mean? Another room?  
  
It must be obvious that she’s nonplussed, because even though Dean still doesn’t look her in the eye, he says, “Sam’s not... he’s confused right now. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but... it seems to be easier on him when you and Dad aren’t...” He stops, looks embarrassed, but they’re way past that stage now, way past jealousy and fighting over who has the greater claim on Sam. There’s no point fighting, anyway. Sam’s made it pretty obvious what he thinks the answer to that question is.  
  
She blinks back the tears, because she’s cried enough for today, maybe she’s cried enough for an entire lifetime (not that that stops the tears from trying to come, of course, even though her face is already swollen and puffy and she has a headache that’s threatening to push on into migraine territory any minute now). She clears her throat, tries to get her voice working, but her throat feels sore and shredded, and she can’t bring herself to speak because she knows how hoarse her voice is going to sound.  
  
Dean fiddles with the stereo, not turning it on but just picking at the plastic casing. “It’s just temporary,” he says, and he doesn’t sound reassuring, he sounds pleading. “Probably it’s just whatever was in that house messed up his head. You know? After some sleep... He’s just... It’s not you,” he finishes, staring intently at his hands. She almost laughs at that, because it _is_ her, that’s the problem, the moment Sam realised it was _her_ he started screaming at her to get away. _Get away_. She’s spent six months trying to get back to him, to get close to him, and the first thing he says is _get out of here_.  
  
Dean swallows, glances at her, quick, like he’s afraid of what he’s going to see. “Jess?” he says.  
  
“Don’t call me that,” she whispers, and gets out of the car.  
  
\----  
  
The second room looks pretty much like the first, like all the motel rooms they’ve stayed in; at first, she noticed the differences – a cracked mirror here, a smell of mould there. Now, they’ve all faded into a blur, Sonora, Louisville, St. Louis. Places she’d never been, before. Places she never wants to go again.  
  
John takes the bed closest to the door, and she wonders when it became normal for her to share a room with a man she barely knows ( _and knows too well_ ). She doesn’t wonder long, because she’s afraid if she thinks about it, if she thinks about everything she’s given up for this moment, this moment of knowing where Sam is, of being fucking _reunited_ , she might lose it completely. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling, the inevitable water-marks ( _Salt Lake City, Jericho, Seattle_ ), the fine network of cracks. She knows John isn’t sleeping; how could either of them sleep? When she closes her eyes, she thinks he’s lost as much as she has, but the thought isn’t comforting.  
  
\----  
  
Dean didn’t mean to fall asleep, but his entire body felt like it was weighted down with exhaustion, and sometime shortly before dawn he opened his eyes to find the night had passed by without him even noticing. There wasn’t really time to think about that, though, because no matter what the reason for his falling asleep might have been, the reason for his waking up was enough to have him alert and out of the bed (or off it, since he’d fallen asleep on top of the covers) in seconds.  
  
Sam’s bed was empty.  
  
Dean felt horror prickle down his neck, but this wasn’t the time to dwell, the door was still slightly open and Dean knew Sam couldn’t have got far. He was outside in a moment, scanning the parking lot, the asphalt cold under his bare feet, and _goddammit_ how could he have been so stupid, how could he have just _fallen asleep_?   
  
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned sharply: there. It was hard to make out the figure in the shadowy early-morning light, but Dean wasn’t about to waste time squinting and wondering, he was off, running, chasing down his brother for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, and even though his focus was narrowed once again to the feel of his feet hitting the ground and the movements of his muscles under his skin, underneath it all there was a thread of thought that he couldn’t quite extinguish, a thread that said _why are you doing this to us?_  
  
He ran up a grassy verge and onto a highway, instantly taking in the area to see which direction Sam had gone, only to find him standing a few feet away, back to Dean, staring down the road and holding out his thumb. Hitchhiking. Fucking _hitchhiking_.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, and strode the last few steps to Sam, grabbing his outstretched arm and forcing it down to his side. Sam turned and stared at him, surprise melting into a puzzled frown.  
  
“Dean. You coming too?” he asked.  
  
“For fuck’s sake!” Dean was relieved, of course he was, but his relief was overridden by disbelief and anger, yeah, he was mad as hell, because they’d _just found_ Sam, they’d just got him back and he was trying to sneak out again? “What the hell, Sam, what in the _goddamn hell_ are you doing?”  
  
Sam blinked. “Uh. I’m... catching a ride.”  
  
“No you’re not,” Dean snapped, and grabbed Sam’s arm, hauling him back down the bank to the motel parking lot. Sam followed along quietly enough, but when they hit the asphalt he stopped.  
  
“Dean,” he hissed urgently. “Didn’t you see? You saw, right?”  
  
Dean closed his eyes. “Saw what, Sammy?”  
  
Sam took a step closer, like there was anyone hanging around in the parking lot before dawn who might have heard them. “ _Her_ ,” he whispered. “Dad, too. I think they’re here.”  
  
Dean turned to face Sam fully, because this had to stop. He was pretty sure they would find whatever it was that had fucked up Sam’s head and get him straight again, but Jessica and Dad couldn’t wait for that. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re here. They came to find you. We all did.”  
  
Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re... but, uh. Is that OK?”  
  
Dean didn’t know what Sam meant. It didn’t seem like anything was OK right now. “Yeah, Sammy. It’s fine. Everything’s OK.”  
  
Sam pulled back a little, but not far; Dean still had hold of his arm ( _and he wasn’t letting it go any time soon, not for anything_ ). “What’s the date?” he asked, and Dean couldn’t follow this conversation, but he figured that was because Sam seemed to have turned into a freakin _crazy person_.   
  
“It’s, uh... I don’t know. It’s March. Or April. I don’t know, Sam.”  
  
Sam blinked a couple of times, then said “OK.”  
  
“OK?” Dean raised an eyebrow. He didn’t get what was going on, but he wasn’t going to just let this go, not when he’d woken up to find Sam _gone_ and thought that maybe the whole nightmare had just started again.  
  
“OK,” Sam said, and nodded firmly, and Dean supposed that was the best he was going to get. He felt the adrenaline leave his body, the energy draining out of him and nothing coming to fill him up in its place. He was just empty.  
  
“OK, Sam. Let’s go back inside,” he said.  
  
\----  
  
She’s up with the sun, as soon as she hears John move; she thinks she dozed for a little around three, but the rest has just been for show. He catches her eye when she sits up, shrugs slightly, looks away. He looks beaten down, his exhaustion showing on his face for the first time since they thought Sam was dead. It’s not the same now, though: back then, he looked torn to pieces, like he would never be able to reassemble himself. Now, he looks threadbare, but he’s still holding together, he’d still determined. They’ve found Sam; it’s not over, not like she hoped it would be, but they’ve _found_ Sam, and that counts for something, maybe almost everything.  
  
Dean opens the door before John has a chance to knock (and she wonders if he would have done anyway, wonders just how many concessions John Winchester is willing to make to the mysterious whims of his youngest son). John stands back, shoulders square, like he’s ready for an attack.  
  
“How’s he doing?” he asks, and Dean glances back into the room, his jaw tightening just a little.  
  
“He’s the same,” he says, and the disappointment in his voice curdles in her stomach. “I don’t... I think I’ve convinced him that you two are OK.”  
  
She cranes her neck to get a view into the room, and Dean looks round again and says something in a low tone, like he’s calming a frightened animal. A moment later, he pulls back, and John pushes through, and she can do nothing but follow behind like an afterthought.  
  
Sam is sitting on the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest, his back against the headboard. He’s cleaner now than he was last night, and she supposes Dean must have made him take a shower at some point, but his skin is grey in the early-morning light, and he looks tired and unwell. He doesn’t look up as they come in, but he shifts a little, seems to shrink, and she knows he knows they’re there.  
  
“We, uh.” Dean stops, looks at his father, like he’s not really sure what to do next. “I’ve been...” He closes his eyes and seems to give up, sitting on the edge of the desk, scraping his fingernails along the veneer.  
  
“Sam?” John says, his voice a weird combination of harsh and gentle, and Sam shrinks a little more, whispers something that she can’t hear.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says, and there’s no harsh there, there’s only gentle, gentle and fraying and coming apart at the seams. “We talked about this, remember? You said it was OK. It’s only Dad, he wants to know you’re OK.”  
  
Sam jumps off the bed and starts moving, pacing along the back wall, as far away from them as possible. “What’s the date?” he says, and Dean frowns and glances at them.  
  
John frowns too, and Sam starts scraping the nails of his right hand along his left wrist, like he’s picking at a scab. His left hand looks weird, stiff, like he’s hurt it. “What’s the date?” he says again, like he’s forgotten that he already asked.  
  
“April fourth,” she says, and it’s stupid, it’s almost the first thing she’s said to him, certainly the first since he realised who she was, something so _banal_. She hasn’t even touched him yet, hasn’t dared, like touching him will break the fragile bonds he seems to desperate to deny. She repeats herself, because somehow that makes it feel like what she’s saying has more weight, more meaning. “April fourth.” Sam’s been gone a hundred and eighty-four days.  
  
Sam freezes, looking at a spot on the floor in front of him. “OK,” he mutters. “OK, OK. But that doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean... Because just because he _said_ , I don’t, it’s not supposed to. How am I supposed to know?” He looks up at this, looking at Dean, and he looks so lost that it makes something break inside her. She’d tried to prepare for everything, prepare for Sam to have left because he wasn’t the man she thought he was, prepare for their relationship to be over, for her to be angry and heartbroken. She hadn’t prepared for this, though, for Sam to be hurting and for there to be no way for her to help.  
  
Dean gets up off the table and crosses to Sam, puts a hand on his arm. “It’s OK,” he says. “You’re not supposed to know.” He sounds so confident, so reassuring, that she almost believes he knows what Sam’s talking about. He turns to his father. “We need to figure out what was in that house that did this to him,” he says. “And whether it’s still there.”  
  
She turns to see John’s reaction to this, and when she turns back, Sam is looking at her. He looks away sharply, but not quick enough; she didn’t see the expression on his face, but she saw that he was _looking_ , and for just a moment, he was _Sam_.   
  
“We’ll talk to Missouri,” says John, but she barely hears him. Sam was looking.   
  
\----  
  
This time, she sits in the front with John. Behind her, she hears Dean talking quietly, a constant rumble under the louder sound of the truck’s engine. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him speak for that long before, and she wonders at it, wonders if it’s just Dean’s reaction to the situation or if it’s Dean’s reaction to _Sam_. Sometimes, Sam will answer, just as quietly, but whatever he says makes Dean pause for a moment, and when she looks at him in the mirror she sees his face twitch like he was hoping for something else.  
  
They’re half-way to Missouri’s when Dean says “Can you tell me what happened?” and she stops breathing so she can hear Sam’s reply.  
  
“Poltergeist,” says Sam, just like last time, and she sees that frustration on Dean’s face again, feels it in her own chest, like it’s difficult to breathe. “I didn’t think... I wasn’t ready.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Dean, “but what happened to _you_ , Sammy? What did it do to you?”  
  
Sam shifts and frowns, like he doesn’t understand the question. “It, it tossed me around a little,” he says. “What?”  
  
It’s Dean’s turn to frown. “What?” And it would be funny, it almost is funny, but she doesn’t laugh because the places where her laughter used to live have been sealed up for months.  
  
“I mean... Why did you say that? There’s nothing wrong with it.” Sam says, and he’s not looking at Dean, he’s looking towards the trunk, like he’s talking to someone there. “No,” he says. “It’s just a cracked rib.”  
  
“What?” Dean says again, urgent this time. “Sam?” And they’re all listening now, all paying attention, all of them except Sam.  
  
Sam frowns, turns back to Dean. “Where are we going? Isn’t it time to leave?”  
  
“Sam, you have a cracked rib?” Dean says, and now it seems like there’s three different conversations going on at once, and Sam is at the centre of all of them, but the threads around him are so tangled that they can only see glimpses of him.  
  
Sam gestures at his ribcage, and Dean curses and grabs his hand. “Sam, Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with your hand?”  
  
Sam snorts and shrugs. “The wendigo broke it. It – I think it healed wrong. It doesn’t work right any more.”  
  
“Fuck,” says John under his breath, and she’s right there with him, not least because she _knows_ what a wendigo is and she doesn’t want the image of Sam fighting one in her head, but now she’s stuck with it.  
  
“For Christ’s sake!” Dean voice is rising. “Didn’t you go to a hospital?”  
  
Sam looks at him like he’s insane ( _like_ he’s _insane_ ). He pulls his hand back out of Dean’s grip. “Are you him?” he says. “You’re acting weird.”  
  
Dean opens his mouth to say something else, and she’s pretty sure from the incredulous look on his face that it’s not going to be pretty, but then John pulls over and they’re outside Missouri’s house, and Sam turns in his seat and says “Wait, isn’t it time to leave? Dean? Are we leaving?”  
  
And then Missouri is standing outside the house, staring at them like they’ve come back from the dead. John gets out, and they all follow, like soldiers, she thinks, or children. She steps towards Sam, sideways, like she’s not doing anything, she wants to be near him, even strange as he is, even when she can only see fragments that catch the light every now and then, sharp-edged pieces of _Sam_. He doesn’t look at her, but he shuffles away, and she feels it like a knife to the gut.  
  
Missouri’s come down the path, and she’s staring, staring until her face looks like it’s nothing but eyes. John takes a step towards her. “Missouri,” he says. “My other son, Sam.”  
  
Missouri doesn’t answer, but it’s Sam she’s staring at, and now Sam is staring back.   
  
“He was in your old house,” she says, almost whispers, and John frowns and says _yes_.   
  
“No, John, you don’t understand,” Missouri says, and she almost breaks eye-contact with Sam to look at him, but stops at the last minute. “He’s what I felt... What I called you about.”   
  
John’s frown deepens and Dean starts bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “What are you telling me here?” John asks.  
  
Sam makes a weird noise in his throat and backs up slightly. Missouri’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You never told me your boy was psychic,” she says.  
  
John barks out a laugh, sounds almost relieved. “Psychic? You’re kidding, right?”  
  
Missouri does look at John, then, and Sam mutters something under his breath, and whatever it is it has an edge to it that scrapes the air like ice.  
  
“No, I ain’t,” says Missouri, and she looks like she’s going to say something else, but then Sam growls, actually _growls_ , and says _Don’t do that._  
  
They look at him in surprise, but he’s still staring at Missouri. “I don’t want you in there,” he says. “It’s mine. You can’t have it.”  
  
Missouri raises her eyebrows, but she looks frightened, and it’s not an expression that suits her face. “I can’t turn it off, honey,” she says, so softly that she’s almost drowned out by the sound of the breeze.  
  
Sam’s face shifts, from angry to sad. “I can’t, either,” he says.  
  
“What...?” says Dean, but he doesn’t finish the question, and she thinks that he’s summed up the last six months in a single word.  
  
Sam sighs and drops his head and starts mumbling. Missouri’s fear has turned to sorrow, and she tells them all to come inside. The weather’s cold, even for early April, but the warmth that fills the house does nothing to take the chill away.


	10. Chapter 10

They use the gas-leak excuse again, but this time she’s in on it, she and John standing looking serious at the door while Dean, Sam and Missouri hang back out of sight. She doesn’t want to at first – maybe she has a credit card under a name that isn’t hers, maybe she’s stood back and watched more times than she cares to remember while John and Dean have committed some crime or other, but this is different, this standing here face to face with a woman who’s barely older than her and claiming to be something she’s not. The woman could be one of her college friends, could be _her_. But Missouri says she can’t tall without getting inside the house, and Sam won’t let Dean go anywhere without him, so she has to do it. John grunted and said it was good, that she would be more convincing anyway. She doesn’t want to be convincing, she wants to be honest.  
  
Convincing, though, is apparently what she is, because the woman (she doesn’t even know the woman’s name, the one whose house she’s planning to invade) takes her kids and leaves, a worried look on her face that doesn’t need to be there. They troop inside, and it’s ridiculous, five of them, grown adults, such a motley crew that she laughs before she can stop herself. Missouri and John are ahead and don’t seem to hear; Dean frowns at her like he’s trying to work out what could possibly be funny (and the answer is _nothing_ , _nothing_ about this is funny); but Sam – Sam turns and gives her a blinding smile, the one that’s always made her weak at the knees, and says, “There you are.”  
  
Dean’s full attention is on Sam immediately, and before she can open her mouth he says, “What do you mean?”  
  
“Look,” says Sam, still smiling beatifically, and it’s so confusing, so difficult, but it’s Sam’s smile, the way he can look at her like she’s the only person in the world, the way he smiles with his whole face, his whole _body_ , and she can’t help but smile back. “Look, Dean,” says Sam. “There she is.”  
  
Dean is quiet for a long moment, and she wonders if he’s thinking it too, wondering if Sam is really seeing _her_. She wants it so hard, but at the same time she’ll take anything, she doesn’t care if he thinks she’s his mother or Marilyn Monroe or the Queen of England, as long as he keeps smiling at her like that. And then Sam reaches out like he’s going to touch her and says, “I missed you, baby,” and she _knows_ , and she thinks it’s all been worth it, all the heartache and the frustration, for this moment. She reaches for his hand, takes a step forward, but suddenly he drops it and steps back, hunching his shoulders and looking around, his head moving in quick jerks like a bird.  
  
“Dean,” he says. “Dean, why are we here? There’s nothing here any more. It’s gone. It all burned up.”  
  
Dean stared at Sam and says something about double-checking, but she’s not listening, because the burn of disappointment is back in her throat, in her gut, but there’s something else there too, now, and she doesn’t want to call it _hope_ , because she’s afraid if she does it will be gone, its delicate bones crushed under the weight of the word. But there’s something, now, and something is better, something is enough, for now.  
  
Missouri and John come back, and John’s frowning, but that doesn’t mean much, John is always frowning. Missouri opens her mouth, but Sam takes a sidestep towards the door and says, “It’s time to go, OK? It all burned up. Mom burned up, there’s nothing left.”  
  
The silence that follows that remark is heavier than lead, and she sees their faces, John, Dean, even Missouri, blank with shock, and she thinks maybe she should be shocked too, but she isn’t, and maybe it’s because she hasn’t lived with the story all her life, maybe it’s because it isn’t real to her like it is to them, but she thinks maybe ( _maybe_ ) it’s because she’s got nothing left, that she’s spent the last six months being shocked and terrified over and over again and now she has nothing left to give.  
  
“That was twenty-two years ago, Sam,” Dean says finally, and she notices how precise he is, how he doesn’t just say _twenty years_. “Something else is going on here. Something happened yesterday. Can you tell us? Can you tell me?”  
  
John’s face has closed down, and Dean looks worried and frightened. Sam rolls his eyes, and she’s wrong, she _can_ still be shocked, because she’s never seen him make that expression before but it looks like it belongs on his face. “Mom burned up,” he says again, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Aren’t you listening? There’s nothing here.”  
  
John’s jaw is clenched, and she knows that Dean’s aware of it, Dean’s always aware of what his father’s feeling, which is strange because when she’s seen him talk to strangers he seems completely unable to sense their moods. He grabs Sam’s arm and says, “OK, buddy, if that’s what you want. Let’s make like a tree.” He shepherds Sam out the door, casting a worried glance back at his father.  
  
Missouri sighs. “He’s right, you know,” she says. “I’m not sensing anything. If anything was here, it’s gone now.”  
  
“You said you sensed something when you called,” John says, and voice is tight.  
  
Missouri nods. “It was him,” she says, gesturing towards the door. “Sam. He’s like a beacon, so much power.”  
  
John shakes his head, but she’s already speaking. “Sam’s not psychic,” she says, looking at Missouri, like if she’s convincing enough (oh yes, she’s so _convincing_ ) it will be true. “He’s not. I would know.” Even as she says the words she knows she sounds ridiculous. Sam knows how to shoot a gun and perform an exorcism, Sam’s been mauled by a werewolf and committed more crimes than she can count. She didn’t know that; she doesn’t know Sam.  
  
“Jessica’s right,” says John, and she’s momentarily taken aback by his approval. “Sam’s never shown any signs.”  
  
Missouri shakes her head. “I can’t tell you what you’ve seen and what you ain’t, but he’s showing them now. He’s practically humming. I’m sorry honey,” she adds, and she’s not talking to John any more. “But it don’t change how he feels about you.”  
  
“This is ridiculous,” John says, scowling now, and Missouri raises her eyebrows.  
  
“John Winchester, sometimes I think you don’t have the sense God gave a mule, nor no manners neither. There ain’t no shame in the kind of gift your boy’s got. It ain’t something he can change. None of us can.”  
  
John frowns, but he doesn’t snap back. Missouri sighs. “I can’t tell you what happened here,” she says. “There’s nothing to sense. I’m sorry, John.”  
  
Missouri leaves, and John stands in the hallway and just stares. She wonders if he even knows she’s there any more, or if he’s seeing another time in this house. She wonders if, when he looks at her, he’ll see his dead wife.  
  
\----  
  
Sam kicked at the pavement with the toe of his sneaker and frowned. “Why are we just standing here?” he asked.  
  
“Dude, I gotta go through everything a hundred times?” Dean asked, and Sam looked up, surprised. Dean closed his eyes, because he did, he _did_ have to go through everything over and over again, Sam just didn’t seem to be able to hold some things in his head, and it wasn’t Sam’s fault, of course it wasn’t, but it was just so _frustrating_. “Dad and Jessica are still inside,” he said, trying to erase the edge from his voice. “We’re waiting for them.”  
  
“Oh,” said Sam, like he was thinking about the. “Is Dad mad?”  
  
Dean thought of Dad’s tense face when Sam talked about Mom. “No, he’s not mad. He’s just tired, is all. We’re all pretty tired.”  
  
Sam nodded. “With the nightmares,” he said. “I know, I know.”  
  
Dean frowned, but Missouri came out of the house before he could ask what Sam meant.  
  
“What’d you find out?” he asked, and she sighed.  
  
“I don’t know what happened to your brother, sweetie.”  
  
Dean glanced at Sam, who was examining something on the back of his hand. “Can’t you just...” he lowered his voice, “pull it out of his head?”  
  
Missouri’s eyes flicked sideways for a moment, and then Sam’s head jerked up sharply and Missouri gasped and took a step back.  
  
“Don’t,” said Sam. “I told you not to do that.”  
  
Missouri blinked and whispered “I’m just trying to help you, Sam, honey.”  
  
“Sam,” said Dean, “let her help you, OK? She’s just trying to help.”  
  
“No,” said Sam, shaking his head slowly. His face scrunched up, and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t want her in there. Get out.”  
  
Missouri suddenly stumbled, putting out her hand to grab Dean’s arm. “Stop, please stop,” she said, and Dean stared at Sam, whose face was screwed up in pain.  
  
“Sam, stop,” he said. “Jesus Christ, _stop_.” He grabbed Sam’s shoulders and shook them, and Sam seemed to snap back into himself, his whole body jerking, and then his eyes flew open, rolling wildly, and he crumpled, Dean barely catching him before he hit the sidewalk. Missouri steadied herself against a tree and closed her eyes, rubbing her hand over her face. Dean sat down on the ground, keeping one hand on Sam to make sure he wasn’t going to topple over from his sitting position, and said _what the fuck was that_ , and he wasn’t even sure who he was asking.  
  
Then Dad and Jessica came out of the house and stopped on the porch, staring at the scene before them.   
  
“Dean?” said Dad, and Dean shook his head.   
  
“I don’t know, Dad. I have no freakin idea.”  
  
Sam looked around at him, face still set in lines of pain. “I need my stuff,” he said. “If we’re leaving, I need my stuff.”  
  
\----  
  
The motel was on the other side of town from where they were staying, and even more rundown, too, which was saying something. Sam fumbled with the key, and it grated in the lock, setting Dean’s teeth on edge. That was nothing, though, compared with how on edge he felt when he followed Sam into the room.  
  
It wasn’t that there were maps and clippings on the walls, or that there were papers strewn about like confetti. That was normal, that was how hunters lived. It was the sheer _quantity_ that was the first thing that smacked Dean in the face, every single inch of wall and floor space covered, coloured pins and string and endless pages of print annotated with Sam’s neat copperplate. And when Dean looked closer, when he saw that almost all the clippings concerned house fires in which young mothers had died, he felt his gut twist again.  
  
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Jesus, Sam.”  
  
“I’ve been looking,” said Sam earnestly, and Dean was suddenly glad Dad and Jessica had stayed in the car. “I’ve got a system, but... stuff keeps happening.”  
  
“Stuff?” asked Dean, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him, evidence of an obsession even their father might be taken aback by.  
  
Sam shrugged. “It hurts. They tell me things. I can’t _not_. I’m sorry, I know I promised, but I’m still... It’s OK, right? You said it was OK.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s OK,” Dean said, the response coming automatically now, even though this was far from _OK_ , this was fucked up six ways to Sunday. “Sam, what are you looking for?”  
  
“The demon,” Sam said, like it should have been obvious. “See?” he said, walking over to one wall and tapping on an article. “Electrical storms,” he said, and grinned like he’d just come up with the cure for cancer.  
  
Dean looked at him and then around at the room. “Yeah, OK, Sam,” he said. “OK.”  
  
\----  
  
It takes them week and a half to sift through all the paper Sam’s collected, and when they’re done they still have no idea what half of it means. The articles, printed from the internet and clipped from newspapers, are clear enough, but half of Sam’s annotations are apparently written in code, and the other half form coherent sentences that seem to have no connection to each other or to the articles they’re written on. Dean asks Sam to explain, and Sam does, but the explanations leave all of them confused and sometimes terrified.  
  
One thing’s clear, though – Sam’s been looking for the thing that killed his mother. He insists it’s a demon ( _the_ demon, always _the_ demon, like they should all know what he’s talking about), but John just shrugs and says he doesn’t know, that he had a lead, or thought maybe he had, way back in September, but then Sam went missing and that had been that. His face is tight again, and Dean looks worried and surprised, like he didn’t even know about it in the first place. At any rate, John’s been looking for the thing for twenty years ( _twenty-two years_ ), but he doesn’t know if it’s a demon ( _the_ demon) or not, has no idea what it is even after all this time. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be a demon, he says. No reason except that Sam’s crazy and his notes make no sense.  
  
It’s been a week and a half, and Sam isn’t getting better. He won’t go near Missouri any more, and Missouri makes this face that’s like a mixture of sadness and fear and says she can’t help him anyway, all she knows is that the house is clean now and that Sam is psychic, she doesn’t even know what kind of power he has, just that there’s a lot of it. They go back to the house a couple of times, trying to find clues as to what happened, but there’s nothing to find, and all Sam will say is that his mother burned up there, he says it and says it, like he’s trying to make them understand something, until Dean drags him away or John stalks out, white-faced, lips pressed in a thin line.  
  
That’s not all Sam says, of course. Sam talks constantly, muttering to himself, speaking to people none of them can see, talking to Dean. Sometimes he directs a remark at her or John, but mostly he barely even acknowledges their presence – all he sees is Dean, Dean, Dean, and sometimes she has to clench her fists until the knuckles go white to stop herself from screaming in jealousy and frustration. Sam paces, too, and every now and then he’ll ask Dean why they aren’t leaving yet. Dean’s given up explaining that they’re investigating the house, because that always leads to another round of _Mom burned up_ , and they can all do without that. Now he just tells Sam it's OK, and that they’ll be leaving soon, and that seems to be enough for Sam.  
  
Sometimes, the pacing and muttering gets too much for her, and she has to leave. One day she’s sitting outside when Dean comes to find her, and it’s spring now, spring in the Midwest, and last April she was in California where spring meant wearing Sam’s jacket because she overestimated how warm it would be again, studying in the library and Sam’s hand warm against hers as the walked across the campus, and now she’s sitting outside a motel in Kansas and her biggest problem is whether or not her crazy psychic boyfriend is right that a demon killed his mother.  
  
“Are you OK?” Dean asks, and it’s too much, it’s all too much, she can’t deal with his sympathy and his worry right now (and she wonders how the hell he does it, worries for all of them all the time, when she barely has enough energy to even think about anyone except Sam) and she covers her face with her hands and says _don’t_.   
  
Dean sits down beside her and waits. After a while, she gets herself together, and when she lifts her head he says “Maybe you should try talking to him.”  
  
She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “How can I?” she asks. “He won’t even look at me.”  
  
Dean taps his fingers against the bench. “He looks at you all the time,” he says. “He misses you.”  
  
She opens her eyes at that, stares at him incredulously. “ _He_ misses _me_?” she asks. “I’m not the one who’s...” she can’t even say it.  
  
Dean frowns. “It’s not like he’s gone,” he says. “Yeah, he’s messed up, but he’s still Sam. He’s still the same, and we’re gonna fix it.”  
  
She bites her lip. _It’s not like he’s gone._ Except he is. He’s _gone_ ( _Sam’s been gone a hundred and ninety-six days_ ), and the words stick in her throat, but she’s been thinking them, thinking them for the last two weeks, no matter how hard she tries not to. “Sam’s not a little messed up. He’s mentally ill, Dean. He needs help.”  
  
Dean’s face snaps into a scowl. “Bullshit. Some freaky spirit or something’s messing with his head. All we gotta do is burn the fucker and he’ll be fine.”  
  
She swallows, because she wants it to be true, wants it so hard, but some of those clippings are from before Christmas, long before Sam can have arrived in Lawrence and encountered whatever was in the old Winchester house. “We haven’t found any evidence of a spirit--” she says, her voice hoarse, but Dean cuts her off.  
  
“You saw the fire,” he says. “The door was being held shut by something.”  
  
“Dean,” she tries again, because now she’s started this, said the words out loud, she needs him to be on her side, needs him to see that what they’re doing isn’t helping Sam, _can’t_ help Sam, needs not to feel so alone. But Dean stands up, chocking over a broom with a clatter.  
  
“No, Jessica,” he says, and she thinks it’s a harsher tone than he’s ever used with her, and remembers back when they first met how she saw him as a thug, thought maybe he was responsible for Sam’s scars, and wonders when her view of him changed, when she realised that he’s the one responsible for all the parts of Sam that _aren’t_ scarred. He holds up his hand now and looks away, and she knows she’s lost the only ally she’s had in the last six months.  
  
“I’m not doing this with you,” he says, and then he walks away, and all she can think is that that means she has to do it alone.  
  
\----  
  
The winter chill hadn’t quite left the air, even though May was fast approaching, when Dean got out of the shower one morning to find Sam throwing his stuff into a bag.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, heart rate speeding up, because Sam hadn’t tried to leave again since that first morning, but he was so unpredictable, God knew what he might do if it popped into his freaky brain. Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, and Dean grabbed his arm, panic rising in his chest now. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Time to go,” said Sam, and now that he was close, Dean could see Sam’s face was weirdly creased and tight around the eyes, like he had a migraine or something.  
  
“Jesus, Sam,” said Dean, because he’d had _enough_ of this crap, Sam’s constant insistence that they go somewhere but refusal to tell Dean where, and more than that, the whole thing, Sam not getting any better, the dead ends with the house and Sam’s notes, and what Jessica had said, which was stupid and short-sighted and just exactly what a civilian would say, except that Dean was terrified that maybe, just maybe, she might be right. It was all fucked up, and Dean was sick of it.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “Fine, we’re going. But you know what? We can’t go anywhere until till you tell me _where_ , Sam. You’ve gotta freakin tell me where we’re supposed to go.”  
  
Sam gave him a look like he’d just asked what colour the sky was and handed him piece of paper with a map scrawled on it.  
  
“Rockford,” he said. “Rockford, Illinois. There’s something I need to take care of.”  
  
And Dean was so stunned to actually have his question answered that all he could do was stare at the map and say “OK, Sam. OK.”


	11. Chapter 11

  
She’s staring at a page of Sam’s notes when the door opens and Sam and Dean step through. She’s looked at it twenty times before, but it doesn’t stop her trying again, because Sam wrote this, her Sam, and she _ought_ to be able to understand it, ought to be able to understand _him_ , and it’s a relief when they arrive and stop her having to admit for the twentieth time that she doesn’t, that none of it makes any sense to her.  
  
Dean glances at her, nods, and then looks at John. “Dad, Sam says we need to go.”  
  
John looks up from his coffee, raises his eyebrows. It’s still early, and she’s learnt from bitter experience that John Winchester is not at his best in the mornings (if he can ever be said to be _at his best_ ), so she hasn’t spoken a word to him yet, has rolled out of bed and showered and dressed and settled down to read ( _to stare_ ) as if he wasn’t there at all. It’s how he likes it; she doesn’t know if she likes it or not. It feels weird to be sharing her room, sharing her life with this person who is at once overpoweringly present and hardly there at all.  
  
“Go where?” John asks, and Dean glances at Sam, who’s looking around, bouncing on the soles of his feet, like he’s desperate to get out the door.  
  
“Rockford, Illinois,” says Dean, and she’s not even sure she’s heard of the place before, wonders where on earth Sam picked the name from, and then remembers that Sam’s out of his mind and trying to understand his thought processes ( _his notes, his childhood_ ) is just asking for a headache.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, like the name has reminded him where he is. “Dean, come on. It’s time to go, man.”  
  
“OK, Sammy,” Dean says, “just let me talk to Dad, OK?”  
  
Sam glances over at his father, and his brow furrows. He lowers his voice, like somehow that’ll stop it carrying across the ten feet that separates them. “Dean, Dad won’t let us go on our own. We can just... It’s important, you know?”  
  
“I know, kiddo, I know it’s important,” says Dean gently. “We’ll bring Dad with us, OK? And Jessica, too.”  
  
Sam’s jaw tightens, and he looks like he’s going to argue, but John interrupts them, saying, “Dean, ask your brother why he wants to go to Rockford.” She looks from one to the other, and it’s stupid, it’s _stupid_ , Sam’s standing _right there_ , but she knows she would have done the same thing, she hasn’t addressed a word directly to Sam for longer than she can remember, and she knows why, too, knows that she’s terrified she’ll say something to him and he’ll look through her like she’s not even there, because she and John seem to be like shadows on the edge of his awareness, like only Dean is real to him.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, but Sam’s looking around again, staring at each corner of the ceiling like he’s seeing something fascinating there. “Hey,” Dean says, and grabs Sam’s face, turning it towards him. “Sammy, you with me? Why’re we going to Rockford?”  
  
“Got some, got some,” Sam says, and blinks a couple of times. “It’s ghosts, Dean, there’s so many... but they’re not the problem, they’re just... It’s OK, if you come, though, right, it won’t go like before? Because man,” he sighs and laughs sadly, wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand and then puts a hand on Dean’s chest. “Fuck, Dean, I’m so sorry,” he says.  
  
Dean glances at his father, and John says _what kind of ghosts?_ , and she can’t believe her ears.  
  
“Jesus,” she says, before Dean has the chance to relay the question. “You’re not serious? You’re thinking about going there?”  
  
John looks at her like he’d forgotten she was there. “It might be worth looking into,” he says. “Might be a case.”  
  
“A _case_?” She hears her voice rise, but she doesn’t care, she’s standing up now, pushing her chair back, and it falls to the floor. “Dammit, John! Sam’s fucking _insane_ , he doesn’t even know where he is, and instead of getting him some help, you’re going to take him off on a _hunt_?” Her hands are trembling, and she clenches them, because even though the trembling is from rage and not fear, she knows he’ll see it as a weakness, this man who can keep still for hours, this man who’s been keeping still for _weeks_ researching _demons_ while his son slips further away.  
  
John doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch. “Rockford might have something to do with whatever did this to Sam,” he says. “If there are ghosts there, they might have messed with his head.”  
  
“Or it might just be a name he picked out of the atlas,” she says. “Sam says crazy stuff all the time, every day. You’re going to follow this one up because he mentioned _ghosts_?” And in the meantime, no-one is helping Sam, they’re all just watching as he wanders in the dark, Jesus, just _watching_. And now, and now John wants them to push him even further into that dakrness, and the very thought of it makes the backs of her eyeballs hurt like someone’s scraping glass along them, because they’ve found Sam and they’re not _helping_ him, there’s no-one to help him but them and they’re just fucking _watching_.   
  
“Jessica,” John says, and he stands up now, too, looms, and she’s tall, she’s always been tall, but John is more than tall, John is _massive_ , John’s presence fills the room like a physical thing. “Sam is my son. I’ll make decisions regarding him.”  
  
She laughs incredulously. “Oh, Jesus, now I see why he had to get away,” she says, and John’s face goes suddenly dangerous, and she thinks he’s going to hit her, is readying herself for the blow, when Dean says _Sam, hey, Sam, what’s wrong?_ and they both turn to see Sam clutching his head, his knees buckling, and Dean moving forward instantly ( _because Dean never stops looking, never takes his attention off Sam for a moment_ ), catching him before he hits the ground, lowering him gently.  
  
“Fuck,” says Dean, and Sam’s making this pained whine, grinding the heels of his hands into his temples like he’s trying to push them through his skull. They’re all crouching now, Dean holding Sam up in a sitting position, she and John hunkered down, trying to see what’s wrong. And then Sam’s body stiffens and his eyes snap open, and he’s staring right at her, right _through_ her, and this is it, this is what terrifies her, Sam doesn’t see her, Sam doesn’t _see_ her.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says again, and his voice is low and rough with panic, he’s trying to turn Sam’s head to face him, but Sam is staring, staring, his eyes moving like he’s following something, back and forth, back and forth, like he’s reading a page of text or watching a movie. He’s looking straight at her ( _straight through her_ ), and she sees that his pupils are huge, like there’s not enough light in the room, even though the sun is streaming through the window.   
  
“Sam,” she whispers, even though she knows he’s not seeing her. “Sam, baby.” _Look at me, Sam_.  
  
And then Sam’s face scrunches up again, his head drops and his hands go to cover his eyes. “Sam?” says Dean, and she thinks John’s the only one who hasn’t called to him, hasn’t tried to bring him home, but John’s crouched beside her and when she glances at him his eyes are dark with something that she thinks is fear.  
  
“Dean,” says Sam, and even though she knew that would be it, it hurts anyway, that Sam is always turning towards Dean, away from her.  
  
“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean says. “You’re OK. Everything’s OK.” He glances up at them, his arm around his brother’s shoulders and his eyes wide, bright in the sunlight, like he’s trying so hard not to lose it.   
  
“Dean,” says Sam again, and he’s already struggling to his feet, the bridge of his nose pinched between his finger and thumb in a way that brings back a rush of memories so sudden it’s almost painful. Sam’s always had migraines, ever since she’s known him, and she’s always hated them, or so she says, has never told Sam that actually, sometimes she welcomes them, welcomes the way they make him so dependent on her, because she doesn’t want to see Sam hurting, of course she doesn’t, but she wants him to be _hers_. She sees it now, that gesture, and takes a step forward, even though she knows that Sam isn’t hers any more, that somehow, he’s been taken from her, taken back by those who have a prior claim. He’s leaning on Dean, and it makes her shoulders ache.  
  
“Take it easy, there,” says Dean, and Sam opens his eyes, cautiously, one at a time.  
  
“We’ve got to go to Rockford,” he says. “We’ve got to _go_ , Dean.”  
  
Dean tries to push Sam into a chair, but Sam won’t be pushed. He stands there with his shoulders hunched, lips tight with pain, and says, “For God’s sake, Dean! People are going to die!”  
  
She stares at Sam, and then at Dean, but it’s John who is moving. He steps forward, grabs his son by the shoulders, and she thinks maybe it’s the first time she’s seen him touch Sam since the hug the night they found him. “What people, Sam,” he says. “What’s happening?”  
  
Sam looks him in the eye, and for a minute she thinks he’s going to speak to him, but then at the last second he turns his head and looks at Dean. “I saw it. I saw it. You’re the one who... we can’t just _let_ it happen.”  
  
Dean looks lost, looking from Sam to his father, his lips slightly parted, throat working like he’s trying to say something but nothing’s coming out. But John gives Sam a shake, just a tiny one, enough to get Sam’s attention back on him. “Just now?” he asks. “Did you see it just now?”   
  
Sam cocks his head on one side like he’s not really sure what’s going on, and she knows the feeling, John’s question makes no sense to her, and it’s like they’ve got a secret language, she would feel left out ( _she always does_ ), except that Dean looks as confused as she does.   
  
“Answer me, Sam,” John says. “Did you see what’s going to happen in Rockford?”  
  
Sam blinks twice, then again, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, Dad, Dean, we’ve got to go.”  
  
John stares into his face for a moment longer, and Sam stares back, pleading, those eyes that can knock you dead at thirty paces. Then John lets go, turns sharply, starts grabbing stuff and shoving it in a bag, and she can’t believe it, she can’t _believe_ it, and she’s about to open her mouth and say as much when Dean says, “Dad, what?”  
  
“Visions,” John says, and when Dean just stares, he says, “Your brother’s having visions, Dean. Of the future.”  
  
Dean’s jaw actually drops, and she always thought that was just a figure of speech. “But...” he says, but she’s not letting him take her turn again.  
  
“You’re kidding,” she says, too loud, she’s always had this _thing_ about being too loud when she’s trying to stay calm. “Tell me you’re kidding, tell me you’re not going to Rockford to hunt ghosts Sam saw in a _vision_.”  
  
John stops what he’s doing and turns to look at her, and she knows that _he_ doesn’t have a problem with being loud, she knows that he doesn’t even try to stay calm, that when he’s mad he’s either roaring like a hurricane or as cold as ice; she knows all this because she’s seen it; she knows it because she _knows_ John Winchester.  
  
“What do you suggest we do?” he asks, and it’s ice this time (which doesn’t mean it won’t turn into a hurricane later).  
  
“Sam’s sick,” she says. “He’s _sick_. He needs professional treatment, not ghost hunts.”  
  
“He’s psychic,” says John, and she rolls her eyes, not because she doesn’t believe him (although she doesn’t, she doesn’t care what Missouri says, she doesn’t care about all the things she’s learned in the last seven months, it’s just too fucking ridiculous), but because she doesn’t really see how that’s _relevant_.   
  
“So’s Missouri,” she says. “She can still manage to put a sentence together so it actually makes sense.”  
  
Dean flinches, but John just gets calmer. “Dean,” he says, “go get the car started.”  
  
“Dad,” Dean whispers, but John doesn’t look at him.  
  
“Take your brother and go,” he says, and when Dean still doesn’t move, he says, “Now, Dean. Go.”  
  
Dean starts at the words and grabs hold of Sam’s arm, hustling him out of the room like it’s on fire. She waits for the storm, drawing herself up, not as tall as John, certainly not as _massive_ , but she’s not backing down.  
  
“What do you think will happen, Jessica?” he asks, and she clenches her jaw.  
  
“They’ll help him,” she says. “He needs help.”  
  
“He needs his family,” John says, and there’s an edge to his voice that says _not you_.  
  
“Not if all they’re going to do is stand by and let him break,” she says, and it’s weird, she’s calm now, too, as if John is contagious, even though the blood is beating in her eyes almost too loud to hear John’s voice.  
  
“You still don’t get it,” John says. “You should go back to Palo Alto. We’ll take care of Sam.”  
  
And then he grabs his bag and leaves, just like that, and she’s still waiting for the hurricane. She stares after him until what he said registers, and then she’s packing her stuff faster than she ever has, slamming out of the door in time to see John and Dean arguing about something, and sliding into the back seat of the Impala before they can drive off without her.  
  
Dean gets in the front, glancing back at her in the mirror and then over at Sam, who’s slumped in shotgun, his eyes closed, all his energy dissipated now they’re on their way. John shoots her a look through the glass before getting in the truck, and she looks right back at him. He may be Sam’s father, but he doesn’t own Sam any more than she does. She used to think that no-one owned him, that no-one _could_ , but now she looks at the two men in the front seat and wonders if maybe she was wrong.  
  
\----  
  
It takes them all day to drive to Rockford, and Sam has two more attacks on the way ( _she’s not going to call them visions, even though he surfaces from each one gasping and babbling about ghosts, urging Dean to drive faster_ ). There’s still an hour or two of daylight left when they get there, and Dean follows the truck down a turning towards a motel, but Sam grabs his arm, tugs on the elbow hard enough to almost make Dean lose control of the car.  
  
“Jesus fuck,” says Dean. “Sam, what the hell?”  
  
“It’s not that way,” Sam says, his voice urgent. “We’ve got to... Dean, come _on_ , it’ll be, it’s tonight, we don’t have long.”  
  
“We’re just going to find somewhere to stay, OK?” Dean says, but Sam shakes his head.  
  
“No, no,” he says, “it’s, it’s left, Dean, you need to go left.” Dean frowns, glancing from Sam to the road, and Sam’s jaw clenches. “Dean!” he says, and for a moment, watching them, she sees the way they must have been, all those years growing up, Sam always knowing what he wants ( _he_ always _knows what he wants_ ) and unafraid to ask, and Dean torn between his father’s orders and wanting to give his brother everything. The moment passes, and Dean looks away, fumbles with his cell phone, turns left.  
  
“Dad,” he says into the phone. “Sam says we need to get over there now. He’s giving me directions. Can you follow me?”  
  
He listens for a minute, then says OK and hangs up. Sam’s leaning forward in his seat, tense, his left hand on the dash, still awkward and stiff. He raps out directions, _left, left, right_ , and then they’re pulling up outside a towering building that she _really_ doesn’t like the look of.   
  
“Here,” Sam says, looking up, and Dean reads the sign.  
  
“A lunatic asylum?” he says. “Jeez, Sam, you sure know how to pick em.”  
  
And then John’s rapping on the window, and they clamber out, the four of them staring at the massive hulking building, and God, it’s so creepy that she half expects bats to fly out of the eaves any second now.  
  
John gives it the once-over like it’s nothing special, then goes for the trunk of the truck. He hands Dean a shotgun and takes one himself, along with the EMF meter (and she wonders when she got to the point where she can recognise an EMF meter). “OK,” he says, “ghosts. Should be simple enough. There’s still enough daylight to do some recon. You two stay here,” he adds, nodding at her and Sam.   
  
“Dad,” says Dean, looking worriedly at Sam ( _he’s worried to leave Sam alone with her, she realises, worried to leave him alone with_ her, _who was the closest person in Sam’s life for three years_ ), but John shoots him a sideways glance and Dean straightens up and turns towards the building. Moments later, they’re both gone, and she’s left standing at the side of the road outside an apparently haunted lunatic asylum with the man who used to be her lover, her _Sam_ (Sam’s been gone two hundred and seven days).  
  
Sam glances at her quickly, and looks away. “Why do you do that?” he asks.  
  
She stares, wondering if he’s really speaking to her or seeing someone else. “Do what?”  
  
He gestures at his head, right hand wild, long fingers flexing, left hand curled and crippled, and she thinks _there it is, right there_. The Sam that was and the Sam that is, and she doesn’t know how to reconcile the two, doesn’t _want_ to, just wants the old Sam back. “It’s the nightmares,” Sam says, hands still in the air, but still now. “Always dreaming. It’s not what you think.”  
  
She looks back at the building. _Roosevelt Asylum_. It’s closed, has been for years. It’s so fucking ironic, that Sam should bring them _here_ , to a mental hospital, but she can’t even make use of it because it’s fucking _closed_.  
  
But Rockford isn’t a small town. There’s probably – there must be – another place to get psychiatric help.   
  
She looks at the door where John and Dean disappeared, going to hunt ghosts, abandoning Sam to his illness. She knows they’ll never forgive her if she does.  
  
“What’s the date?” Sam asks suddenly, and he sounds frightened.  
  
“It’s April,” she says. “Twenty-seventh.”  
  
Sam looks at her, and his face splits into a grin. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says.  
  
She makes her decision then, grabs him by the hand. “Sam, baby,” she says, “let’s go for a little walk, OK?” Dean has the keys to the Impala, and she doesn’t know how to hotwire it (he offered to teach her once, but she said no, and now she’s kicking herself), but they passed through a shopping district a minute or so before they got here and there’ll be taxis, she thinks. She starts walking, pulling Samwith her, refusing to think about the fact that she’s touching him, the way his skin feels warm against hers, the way his huge hand engulfs hers like she’s a child. He follows her for a few steps, and her heart’s hammering like crazy but she thinks maybe she can do this, maybe she can fix Sam. And then he stops, so sharply that he almost pulls her over, and she turns to see him looking back at the asylum.  
  
“That’s not,” he mutters. “Dean, you know.... Don’t let him. Shit.”  
  
“Sam?” she says, tugging on his hand. “Come on, Sam, just a little further. We can go and see the nice doctor.” And Jesus, she’s talking to him like he’s a four year old, and she hates herself, suddenly.  
  
Sam glances back at her, then turns to the asylum again. When it comes, she’s not ready, and he’s jerked his hand out of her grasp and is running, reaching the building before she can even register he’s gone. She curses and follows, but Sam’s got legs a mile long and by the time she gets to the door, he’s long disappeared into the dark. She stands for a moment, biting her lip, because she’s seen plenty enough horror movies to know not to go into a creepy ( _haunted_ ) abandoned lunatic asylum, especially not when it’s going to get dark soon.  
  
But Sam’s gone in there, and if she’s learned one thing in the past seven months, it’s that where Sam leads, she will follow.  
  
\----  
  
It’s dark inside the asylum, darker even than she expected. _Dingy_ , she thinks, and she’s never really thought about that word before today, it conjures up images of peeling wallpaper and stained carpets, but this, this is what it really means, light so thick with grime it’s almost liquid, falling in cloudy shafts on a floor strewn with rubble and trash. She shudders, tries not to remember what Sam said about ghosts, tries not to let herself realise that this is stupid, this is _stupid_ , OK, so she’s trained some, she canmore or less hit a target with a knife or a gun, but she doesn’t have either right now, doesn’t even have a flashlight, and she’s walking right into the belly of the beast. But it’s still daylight, and Sam doesn’t have a gun either. She’s lost Sam once before, and it almost killed her. She won’t lose him again, even if it does kill her.  
  
“Sam?” she calls, but quietly, like she’s afraid someone else will hear, and her voice sets the dust trembling in the air. She hears him calling to her up ahead, and stumbles forward, grateful that at least he’s not far away.  
  
He doesn’t wait, though, he won’t wait for her ( _she searched for him for half a year and he won’t wait for her_ ), and she finds herself walking deeper and deeper into a maze of corridors, and it’s cold, it’s colder here than outside, and her fingers are going numb. Then she passes a flight of stairs, and Sam’s voice calls to her from below, louder now, urgent. She stares, because it’s _dark_ down there, and she feels invisible fingers crawling over her skin, she doesn’t want to go down there, she _doesn’t_. But Sam calls again, and he sounds worried, panicked, and she steels herself, steps forward and down, forward and down.  
  
She’s never seen a ghost before, and even though she’s more or less come to terms with the fact that they exist, has seen too many things not to, it’s still a shock when she comes face to face with a man who is quite obviously dead. She doesn’t have time to scream, though (although she would have, no doubt about that) before he grips her head with both hands, whispering soothing words, and pain sparks through her brain so intensely that it’s like seeing God. _Where’s Sam?_ she thinks, and then she blacks out.  
  
When she comes to, the dead man is gone, and everything is tinged with red. That’s OK, though, that doesn’t matter; for the first time in months, her mind feels clear, clear of doubt, clear of confusion. Everything’s clear to her now.  
  
Picking herself up off the floor, she goes to find Sam.


	12. Chapter 12

  
Dean held out the EMF detector in front of him and moved it in a broad sweep. Jesus, the thing was lit up like Christmas, and it wasn’t even dark yet. _So many ghosts_ , that was what Sam had said. Well, looked like that was right, anyway (and if that was right, what the hell did it mean, did it mean Sam really could see the future?) Dean hefted the shotgun, because yeah, it was still daytime, but ghosts didn’t exactly always follow the rules, and _damn_ , but it looked like there were a lot of ghosts.  
  
The sound of running footsteps echoed down the corridor towards him, and he was ready in an instant, pocketing the EMF, raising the shotgun, the stock against his shoulder. He was having a bad day – fuck, a bad _year_ – and really, the prospect of blowing something away was so appealing right then that he almost pulled the trigger before he registered that the figure coming towards him was Sam. _Fuck_.   
  
“Jesus, Sam,” he muttered. “Warn a guy, would ya?”  
  
Sam broke into a broad grin, the one that always had Dean grinning along. “Getting jumpy in your old age.”  
  
Dean laiughed in surprise, and felt something that might have been hope flutter in his stomach for just a moment, because it was so _Sam_. And then Sam’s eyes flicked around, and he frowned. “Where’s Dad?”  
  
“Checking out the lower floors,” Dean said. “We figured it would go quicker if we split up.”  
  
Sam’s frown deepened. “Is he... Dean, you let him, you let him go down to the basement?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “There’s a basement? I guess Dad’ll probably check it out.”  
  
Sam’s eyes swivelled wildly, not _rolling_ , not really doing anything Dean could put a name to. “But you know, you _know_ , and you said. It’s supposed to be different, I know, I shouldn’t go there, I can’t. Dean, you let Dad go down there?”  
  
Dean felt the little spark die, but he didn’t stop to mourn it, because Sam was pacing back and forth in the trash-filled corridor, and his gestures were getting wild.  
  
“Hey, hey,” he said. “Dad can handle himself. It’s daylight, he’s got a gun, it’s all good.”  
  
Sam stopped dead and stared at him like he’d just said the moon was made of cheese. “Jesus _Christ_ , Dean,” he said, and it looked like he was going to follow that up, but then he tilted his head like he was listening. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, Dean, Jess. Dean. _Dean_.”  
  
“What about her?” Dean asked, but Sam just shook his head and grabbed Dean’s arm.  
  
“We’ve got to, we’ve, we’ve, Dean, we’ve got to _go_ ,” he said, and started pulling. Dean was pretty much freaked the hell out by now, what with Sam’s growing agitation and the freaking EMF that was still humming like crazy against his hip, and he wasn’t about to argue, because something was going down, and Dean was pretty much sure it was going to be bad. It was going to be so bad.  
  
\----  
  
The place is like a maze, but she navigates with a clear-sightedness she’s not had for months, if ever. Everything’s been so screwed for so long, and she’s just let it get that way, let herself be dragged around by _Winchesters_ and not done anything about it. She’s been so confused, but now she knows, she _understands_ , and she’s ready to do what needs to be done to make sure that it doesn’t happen again. She knows they’re here, she can _feel_ them tingling in the air, and she knows that it’s only a matter of time until she finds them.  
  
In the end, though, she only finds one.  
  
John is passing through the corridors like a ghost, somehow managing to give the impression of a purposeful stride even when he’s walking slowly, checking his surroundings with every step. She hates it, all the facades he has, the pretense. He never lets the mask crack, never reveals the man inside who drove his son away, who cares more about revenge than he does about his own children. He’s wrong, he’s just so _wrong_ , and it has to stop.  
  
He swivels sharply when she steps out in front of him, levelling the gun in her direction, then lowering it when he sees it’s her. He lets out an exasperated sigh, and she feels anger coil hot in her belly.  
  
“I thought I told you to stay put outside,” he says, then, “Where’s Sam?”  
  
 _Oh,_ now _you care about Sam_ , she thinks, but she doesn’t say it. She’s unarmed, and even if she had a weapon, John is better trained, better prepared, and just all-round _bigger_ than she is. She’s thinking so clearly, and she knows exactly what she has to do and how to do it.  
  
“He took off running,” she says. “Came in here. I’ve been trying to find him.”  
  
John watches her for a moment, then says, “Go back outside. I’ll find Sam.”  
  
“OK, but,” she tries to inject just the right amount of worry into her voice, “there’s, I thought I saw something. Over there.” She gestures at a dark corner, and John eyes her some more then steps over, holding out his EMF meter and tucking the gun under one arm.  
  
“Here, let me take that,” she says, and the EMF is buzzing like crazy, just like she knew it would, so John’s distracted enough to hand over the gun, doesn’t realise until she’s stepped back and has it trained on him, and _now_ she’s got the advantage, she may not be the better marksman, but she can hit a target the size of John Winchester at point-blank range.  
  
John turns towards her, palms out. “What is this?”  
  
“This?” She laughs, because she’s been asking herself that same goddamn question for months. “This is you, John. This is you, and what you’ve been doing, what you’ve _done_. What, you thought no-one would ever call you on it?” She gestures slightly with the gun, and John’s watching her, looking for an opening, she knows it, she’s not _stupid_ , but she wants him to hear this, to listen to her for once, to _know_ why this is happening. “You’ve got Dean, I guess, your little yes-man. And Sam tried to call you, didn’t he? He tried, and you put him out of your life like he was a stranger. Jesus, John,” she laughs again, but really, it’s not fucking funny, “I wouldn’t treat a _dog_ the way you treat your kids.”  
  
“Jessica,” John says slowly, “put the gun down.”  
  
“Or what?” she asks. “You’ll take Sam away from me? You can’t take him, John, he’s already gone. He’s _gone_ , and if you had just been able to let go, he would still be here. This is your fault. It’s all your fault.”  
  
John’s eyes flick down to the gun, and he doesn’t look sorry, doesn’t even look _scared_. It’s all she can take, and she doesn’t even think about it as she pulls the trigger.  
  
\----  
  
The sound of the gunshot bounced through the corridor ( _loud, so fucking loud_ ), and Dean put on an extra spurt, _shit shit shit_ , something was going down, something really _bad_ was going down, and Sam was in front of him, Sam was a faster runner _goddammit_ and there was no way Dean was going to get there first and something bad was going down and Sam was going to run right into it with no-one to protect him.  
  
And then Sam disappeared around a corner into the darkness, and Dean skidded round it moments later to find the worst, the _worst_ thing that he could imagine right now.  
  
Jessica stood with a gun in her hands, and Dad lay a few feet away on the filthy floor, head slumped, unconscious ( _gotta be unconscious_ ). Between them stood Sam, and the barrel of the gun was aimed directly at his chest.  
  
“Sam,” Dean said, warning, even though what the fuck was he warning Sam about, Sam could _see_ how much trouble he was in.  
  
“Get out of the way,” Jessica said, calmly, like this whole thing was nothing, a little spat.  
  
“No,” Sam said. “You’re not going to kill him.”  
  
“Jesus,” breathed Dean, and he didn’t know what was going on, didn’t have a _clue_ , but Sam knew, Sam had _known_ , and how was that, how?  
  
“Dean,” said Sam quietly, “there’s a hidden room behind that wall.” He gestured with his crippled hand. “The bones are in a cupboard. You know what to do.”  
  
“I’m not leaving,” Dean growled, his eyes going from Jessica to Sam to Dad, wondering if he could pull his own gun quick enough.  
  
“You’re the only one who can do it,” Sam said.  
  
“Shut up,” said Jessica, the barrel wavering for a second then fixing on Sam’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Sam raised his hands slowly. “Jess,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
“It’s a little late for that,” said Jessica, and Dean started moving, edging towards the wall, because Sam was right, this whole thing was fucked up but there was only really one way out of it now, short of shooting Jessica, and OK, he would do that if it came down to it, but there was some freaky shit going on here and she was _human_ ( _she was Jessica_ ).  
  
“I know,” Sam said. “I know, God, Jess. I never wanted.... I just. I just. I wanted it to be OK for you. For you to be OK.”  
  
“Do I look OK to you?” Dean heard Jessica ask, and he suppressed a shudder at the bitter rage in her tone, tried not to imagine how quickly something that intense could translate into violence ( _because he knew how quickly, he’d seen it so many times before_ ).   
  
Sam was silent, and after a moment, Jessica spoke again. “I asked you a question, _Sam_. Do I _look_ OK?”  
  
Dean found the edge of the panel that had to lead to the hidden room. He looked back at the scene, the gun, Jessica looking oddly angelic, pale and straight-backed, eyes sparkling with rage in the dim light, and Sam so fucking tall and none of that would save him if she really went for it. He had to get through to the room, had to find the freakin bones, and shit, he was going to have to make noise and that would pull her attention onto him and shit, shit, there was no other way.  
  
He didn’t look back as he put his foot through the panel and then threw all his weight against it, breaking through with a crash that was too loud, too goddamn loud, and he stumbled, caught himself and started looking for the cupboard, fuck, he didn’t have much time, he had the salt and the lighter fluid in his hands already and there was a curtain and a really freakin creepy old bed and there, _there_ , that had to be it and _fuck_ that was gunshot, Jesus, _Jesus_ , but there, there were the bones, and he didn’t even stop to register how bad they smelled, just flung down the salt and the lighter fluid and tried to breathe, tried not to let his heart thunder its way out of his chest. It took him three tries to light the match, and he couldn’t even tell if there were still voices in the next room, couldn’t hear anything over his heartbeat, and then _there_ , it waslit and dropped and the air was full of the stench of seared flesh, and Dean thought it smelled sweeter than freakin apple pie, and for just a moment, just a moment he felt the old rush, the one he’d almost forgotten, job done, crisis averted.  
  
Then he stood and listened and listened for voices in the room next door.  
  
\----  
  
When she blinks awake, her world is full of Sam. That’s how it should be, of course, how it’s always been, she hasn’t been able to see anything but Sam for months, for years; but this time, he’s _there_ , his face up close to hers, eyes wide, worried, hair falling over his forehead like it always does. He’s _there_.  
  
“Jess,” he says. “God, Jess, Jess, baby, are you all right?”  
  
She sees a hand snake round, touch Sam on the arm, try to pull him away, but he shrugs it off, and she realises his arms are around her, supporting her, and it feels like sinking into cool water. She closes her eyes for a moment, and she can’t remember how she got there, but she doesn’t want to be anywhere else, not ever.  
  
And then she sees John’s body jerk, hears the roar of the shotgun, and her eyes fly open, and it’s not relief that’s making her light-headed any more.  
  
“Sam,” she whispers. “Your Dad... Sam, what happened?”  
  
Sam takes one hand from her back, brushes her hair from her face. “He’ll be all right,” he croons. “It was only salt, he’ll be OK, baby, it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“What... what?” She’s bewildered, frightened now, struggling to sit up. She remembers, _God_ , she remembers, it was all so clear, and now there’s nothing but confusion and fear and what the hell and what did she _do_?   
  
Dean is crouched a short way off, holding his father the way that Sam is holding her. John is coughing and cursing, eyes red-rimmed, and Sam glances, but he turns back to her and she sees no accusation in his face. “Not your fault,” he whispers, “not your fault.”  
  
She wants to believe him, but she’s not sure she can.  
  
\----  
  
The place is empty of ghosts now, and they leave, their steps loud in the muffled dimness, dust flying up at every movement. Sam wraps his arm around her, supports her, and she presses into him, and God, she’s been longing for this, but all she can see is the way John’s mouth dropped into a shocked _o_ when she pulled the trigger. It’s bad, it’s really bad, and there’ll be worse to come, she knows there will, and she tries to absorb Sam through her skin, to make him part of her so they can’t take him away, can’t push her away.  
  
It’s after sunset when they get outside, the sky that deep shade of blue that makes you want to dive into it, the colour that nothing else ever is or can even aspire to be. John casts a glance at her, and then jerks his head at Dean, wanting to talk, wanting her not to hear. She feels her stomach roll, and grabs Dean’s arm.  
  
“Please,” she says. “I’m sorry, I don’t know... I don’t know what happened. Please, don’t let him take Sam.”  
  
Dean looks at her for a minute, and she sees hardness in his eyes. _Not an ally_ , she thinks, _not any more_. “I can’t make any promises,” he says, and stalks off.   
  
She sits on the hood of the Impala, and Sam lets go of her and stares at where John and Dean are talking. “Jesus,” he says. “Jesus. I can’t... Why did you even, God, _Dean_.”  
  
“Sam?” she asks, and it’s tentative, because he’s still lost, God knows, but she saw him when he was holding her in the basement, she saw _him_ , and she wants so hard to see him again.  
  
Sam shakes his head vehemently and starts to pace. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “I can’t believe it. He just... And we _know_ , we _know_ , dammit.”  
  
She wants to reach out to him, but he seems so angry, and she’s terrified that he’s angry at her; so she just watches him stride back and forth, and wishes she could understand what it is he sees.  
  
\----  
  
“She was possessed, Dad,” Dean said. “You can’t exactly hold that against her.”  
  
Dad stood in the darkness, shoulders back, hands thrust deep in his pockets. He’d been shot (with salt, admittedly, but _shot_ ) less than an hour before, but there was no sign in his posture that he was in pain at all. Dean didn’t have to see his face to know what expression was on it.  
  
“She could have killed your brother,” he said, and the edge in his voice told Dean everything he needed to know. “She’s a liability.”  
  
“It could have happened to any of us,” Dean said. “Me, you, Sam. It was just bad luck.”  
  
“But it didn’t happen to us, it happened to her,” Dad replied. “And I don’t think I need to remind you of what she said this morning.”  
  
Dean closed his eyes, shifted uncomfortably. He was tired, _God_ , he was so tired. Dad wanted Jessica gone, but Sam wasn’t getting any better, and they weren’t getting any closer to finding out what the hell had happened to him and how to fix it ( _and maybe, maybe she was right, Jesus, because Sam was psychic, and maybe he was crazy too_ ). Dean thought about going on the road, following Sam’s visions, just the three of them again ( _just like he’d wanted, Christ_ ), and felt like all he wanted to do was sleep until this nightmare was over.  
  
“Dad,” he started, but suddenly someone grabbed his lapels and his back was hitting the wall, the breath knocked out of him, and Sam was all up in his face, eyes glinting in the glow of the streetlights, chin jutting out, Sam the way Dean had last seen him, four years ago now, only then this rage had been directed elsewhere.  
  
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean blinked, stared, because nothing was making sense any more.  
  
\----  
  
She’s thinking about touching Sam again, anger be damned, when he turns and charges off towards Dean and John, and it’s so sudden that it takes a moment for her brain to catch up and for her to slip off the car and run after him. By the time she gets there, he’s got Dean up against a wall, and there’s anger in every line of his body, and she thinks _no, no, it can’t be happening to him, too_.  
  
Dean is tense, confused. “What the hell?” he says. “Get off me, man.”  
  
“You’re not... you’re not,” Sam’s jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “You _told_ me it was OK! You _told_ me! Why would you do that? What did you... They could have been killed, for Christ’s sake!”  
  
“Sam, let your brother go.” John’s voice is quiet, but she knows it won’t be for long, sees the tension in his shoulders. None of them expected this.  
  
Sam doesn’t even seem to hear. “I can’t believe I listened to you,” he mutters, and drops Dean, turning away and rubbing his hand over his face.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says, reaching a hand out, but Sam jerks away from his touch, and Dean glances helplessly at his father and then at her, but they have no help to offer, they’re not the ones Sam leans on. “Please,” Dean says, his voice cracking. “I don’t even know what I did.”  
  
Sam swings round, and he’s furious like she’s rarely seen him, and she shrinks back in spite of herself, because she’s always known that he’s tall, but he’s never seemed _huge_ like this. “You said it would be OK!” he says. “I _asked_ you, and you said, you fucking _said_ it.”  
  
Dean shakes his head, his hands spread, palms outwards. “I didn’t know this would happen, Sammy. How could I have known?”  
  
Sam stares at him with a look on his face of utter disbelief, and she has a sudden sense of disconnect, the air feels greasy, like something important’s about to happen. “You...” Sam says, and it seems like he’s too angry to even speak. “You’re the one who _told_ me, Dean. You _told_ me.”  
  
“I know, I know I did,” Dean says, and he sounds completely lost now, like he’s a child. “But I didn’t know.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, rapidly to and fro, and the gesture looks oddly mechanical. “Not then, not _then_ ,” he says. “Before. In Palo Alto, God, Dean, in Palo fucking Alto. You _told_ me, and I did what you said, I did it, and I didn’t come and find them, they found _me_! And you said it would be OK!”  
  
She feels like the whole world has stopped for a moment. Sam is breathing hard, chest heaving; Dean is staring, the beginnings of denial already forming in the line of his chin, the widening of his eyes; John is still, like he’s carved from stone. They stand there, a family portrait, and time slows for a second, the blood beating out a dim rhythm in her ears, and she thinks _why is this happening?_  
  
And then movement bursts back into the world like a thunderclap, and Dean’s taking a step back, Sam’s stepping forward, and she thinks he’s going to lunge again, but Dean’s shaking his head.  
  
“I never...” he says and blinks. “Sam, I never talked to you in Palo Alto. I didn’t... I got there after you were already gone.”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows draw down. “You don’t... It’s confusing enough already, Dean, God can’t you just...”  
  
“No,” Dean says, still shaking his head, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. “No, Sam, it wasn’t me. I don’t know who you talked to, but it wasn’t me.”  
  
Sam’s face twists, his nostrils flaring, hurt, fear. “You’re... But. You’re not...” Then he steps back, his eyes wide. “You’re not him, you’re not Dean.” He takes another step, and she thinks _he’s going to run, he’s going to run again_ , and she’s moving forward now because like _hell_ she’s going to let that happen, and John is moving too, but Dean is faster than both of them, than all of them. He lunges forward, grabbing Sam’s wrists, and Sam fights him, struggles, but Dean pulls sharply, forces Sam to look him in the face.  
  
“Hey, hey!” he says. “It’s me. Look at me. It’s me, I’m Dean.”   
  
Sam turns his head one way and the other, and then looks at Dean, looks him in the eyes. For a moment, anger and doubt mark his face, and then his eyes widen. “Dean,” he breathes.  
  
Dean closes his eyes and lets Sam’s wrists drop. It’s like all the strength has gone out of his body suddenly, and his shoulders slump, his head droops. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says. “It’s me.”  
  
Sam puts a hand to his face, rubs his cheek like he’s been slapped. “But...” he says, and then it seems like he can’t think of anything to follow that up, and Dean’s just _standing_ there like he’s going to fall over at any minute, and someone needs to say something, to grab this crack and pull, tear down the shroud that’s hiding Sam from them, and so she steps forward.  
  
“Sam,” she says, and Sam jerks, looks up at her, and he’s so lost, so lost, but she’s got to be firm. “When you spoke to... Dean in Palo Alto, what did he say to you?” She thinks it might be the most important question she’s ever asked in her life.  
  
Sam stares at her, glassy eyed, and she waits, she’s been waiting for months ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and seven days_ ), and she realises in that moment that if that's what it takes, she’ll wait for him for ever.


	13. Chapter 13

_“Sam,” she says, and Sam jerks, looks up at her, and he’s so lost, so lost, but she’s got to be firm. “When you spoke to... Dean in Palo Alto, what did he say to you?” She thinks it might be the most important question she’s ever asked in her life.  
  
Sam stares at her, glassy eyed, and she waits, she’s been waiting for months (_Sam’s been gone two hundred and seven days _), and she realises in that moment that if that’s what it take, she’ll wait for him for ever._  
  
Sam glances away, glances at Dean, but Dean doesn’t look up, still staring at the ground like he’s not even in there any more, and she reaches out, touches his arm. “Sam,” she says again ( _look at me, not him_ ), “what did Dean say?”  
  
Sam turns back to face her, blinks once, twice, and she’s aware of John’s dark gaze on both of them, can feel it burning into her, waiting like she is, but even John’s _waiting_ is more intense. “I don’t,” Sam says, and rubs his hand over his face again. “He, he said. My head, Jess, God. It’s so...” He stares at her, desperate, like he’s pleading for something, but she doesn’t know what he wants, what he needs, she can’t know unless he _tells_ her. Stopping herself from just stepping forward and hugging him, telling him he doesn’t need to worry about anything, is like tearing strips of her skin off, but she knows that this is how it has to be.  
  
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb, screws his eyes up. “He showed me,” he says. “Dean showed me what it would be like, if.” He opens his eyes and stretches his hand out towards her, but stops before it reaches her, and the hand just hovers in the air, like it’s afraid to touch. “There was, God, burning, you were, Jess, please.” He’s crying now, tears rolling silently down his cheeks, reflecting the light of the moon. “I lost you,” he whispers. “I lost you, I lost everything.”  
  
She shakes her head, because none of this is making sense, and she wonders if he’s confusing her with his mother again, with the mention of fire and loss. “I’m right here,” she says, willing his hand to close the gap, make the connection. “You didn’t lose me, Sam, you left me.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, and the tears scatter into the air. “I had to, I had to, there wasn’t time. I didn’t know how to stop it, and everything was so confused, it’s always so confused now.” He fists the hand that isn’t reaching for her and rubs it against his temple. “I don’t, Jess, I keep trying but there’s so much of it. It hurts. It hurts all the time.”  
  
She’s about to ask another question, but then John speaks, and both of them jump a little. She realises that she’d forgotten him, forgotten everything except Sam, her and Sam and the words Sam was saying and what they might _mean_.  
  
“Why didn’t you call us?” John says, and she hears the undertone of accusation, feels her hackles rising even though she wants to ask the same question, _why, Sam, why the hell didn’t you call me?_  
  
Sam’s head jerks, and the tears are coming faster now. “It’s not safe,” he whispers, “not for you. I’m not safe. It’s all me, it’s always been... You’re in Sacramento, and you’re...” He blinks at her and shakes his head.  
  
“What about you?” she asks, because she doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, but he’s _talking_.   
  
“We’re here,” Sam says. “Me and Dean, we’re here.” He sounds completely devastated, but she has no idea why.  
  
“I thought I could stop it,” says Sam, getting agitated now. “Dean said I could change it. You said,” he says, and turns towards Dean, and she’s going to try and get his attention back again, but Dean’s head snaps up and he’s moving suddenly, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking him.  
  
“No, Sam,” he says, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, which is all kinds of fucked up because she’s seen Dean in bad situations before, God, they’ve been in one never-ending bad situation since they met, but she’s never seen him really cry. “No,” he says again, “I didn’t say anything, you understand? That wasn’t me you talked to, I would never, Sammy, I would never do that to you.”  
  
“Dean,” she says, because she can see his fingers pressing into Sam’s shoulders even in the dark, and it’s got to hurt, she doesn’t want Sam hurt; but Dean’s face stops her, he looks manic, desperate, and Sam’s reaching out now,his hands on Dean’s chest, on his shoulders, gentle.  
  
“It’s OK,” he says. “I think we can still change it.”  
  
“No, God, it’s not OK, it’s _not OK_ ,” Dean says. “It hurts, you said it hurts.”  
  
Sam blinks and puts one hand up to his head. “All the time,” he says, but not like he’s sad or bitter, just like it’s a _thing_ , like having to do laundry or look both ways before crossing the street.  
  
“I wouldn’t,” Dean says, and he’s reaching for Sam’s head too, but his hand stops, just like Sam’s stopped when he reached for her earlier, afraid to touch, afraid of something that she can’t see. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Sam, you get that, don’t you? It wasn’t me.”  
  
Sam shakes his head slowly, and then says, “You gave her to me, Dean. You didn’t hurt me, you made me see.”  
  
“See what?” Dean asks, and Sam grins, huge and brilliant in the moonlight.  
  
“Don’t you see?” he says. “It’s April. I lost her in November, and it’s April, don’t you get it?”  
  
Dean closes his eyes, lets his hand fall back onto Sam’s shoulder. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t get it, Sammy. I don’t get it.”  
  
She doesn’t get it either, but she’s beginning to think that maybe one day she might.  
  
\----  
  
Both Sam and Dean are exhausted, so wrung out that when Dean stumbles and sways on the way back to the Impala, John orders him into the back seat with Sam and hands her the keys. She looks up at him as he puts them into her hands, and he’s so _tall_ , not as tall as Sam but taller at the same time, and she didn’t expect this, for him to trust her so soon after what happened in the asylum, for him to ever trust her again.   
  
“Don’t put it in a ditch,” he says, and she knows that he doesn’t trust her, not really, but that his sons are done and he has no-one else to fall back on. He doesn’t say anything else, but she hears it anyway, in his posture, in the lines on his face. _Don’t let my boys get lost_. Her hands close over the keys and she thinks that that’s one order she can carry out, because she’s never losing Sam again, and she’s pretty sure that if she keeps hold of Sam, Dean will come along with the package.  
  
Sam’s asleep almost as soon as they pull out, and she thinks it’s been a long day, so fucking long, visions and screaming arguments and driving for hours, and she almost laughs out loud when she realises that she was possessed today, she was _possessed_ and she shot a man, John Winchester no less, and it wasn’t even the most eventful thing that happened to her.   
  
Dean’s eyelids are at half-mast, but his face looks anything but relaxed. Sam twitches in his sleep, muttering even now, never still, never at peace, and every whispered word draws the lines on Dean’s face tighter. She’s getting a headache, but she’s not tired, in fact she’s wide awake, alert enough to see that Dean’s going to lose it if she doesn’t do something.  
  
“We’ll figure this out,” she offers, and Dean’s eyelids lift a little, he catches her eye in the mirror and she draws in a breath at the misery she sees there.  
  
“It wasn’t me,” he says, and she can barely hear him over the sound of the engine. “You believe me, right?”  
  
“Of course,” she says, and she can’t understand why he’s making such a big deal out of this. They know it wasn’t him, and even if Sam seems a little confused on that point, it’s not like he blames Dean for anything; hell, Dean is the only person he seems to trust implicitly.  
  
Sam jerks awake, eyes snapping open, spine rigid, a half-garbled sound on his lips that might be his brother’s name. Dean’s alert in an instant, hands on Sam’s arms, soothing, gentling, and Sam’s eyelids slide shut like he was never awake in the first place. She remembers when she used to do that for him, and there’s a pang, but it’s not sharp like it used to be, because she knows now that she and Dean aren’t rivals, they’re partners. God knows, Sam needs all the help he can get.  
  
\----  
  
It’s not like life, after, not like the life she had before, making cookies on Sunday mornings and studying on the grass when it was sunny and calling her mom twice a week, but it’s the closest thing she’s had to it since Sam walked out in the middle of the night and left her to find out that what she thought was the world was just make-believe. It’s not like life, but it’s _a_ life, and now, it’s _her_ life, and she deals with it, because most of the time Sam is gone ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and fifteen days_ ), but sometimes he’s there, and sometimes is good enough, sometimes is enough for her to think that maybe they really are going to figure this thing out.  
  
It’s not easy, though, Christ, she can’t remember the last time something was easy, and sometimes she can’t bear it, waking every day with John Winchester’s presence pressing around her even when he’s still sleeping, reading until her eyes blur, ghosts and goblins and texts so gruesome they make her stomach turn, listening to Sam mutter and babble (and that worst of all, worst of everything). Sometimes she thinks about just leaving, walking out of the motel room and not stopping, thinks about not having anywhere to go, no ties, and wonders if it would be a relief.  
  
One sunny afternoon she’s sitting outside on a bench, paging through a book of ritual magic, and John comes out and sits next to her. They haven’t spoken again about the incident at the asylum and the argument before, and she’s been waiting, wondering if the other shoe is going to drop. _Here it is_ , she thinks.  
  
“You could leave,” John says. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring out across the parking lot like he’s watching for the enemy (and he’s John, he’s _John_ , so most likely he is).  
  
“What?” she asks, because she didn’t expect this, thought it might be coming but that it would be _get out_ , not _you could leave_.  
  
He glances at her, but there’s no heat in his eyes. “I know you’ve thought about it. You’ve got family, friends, college. A life,” he says. “This is...” He stops, shakes his head, staring out again, and she wonders what he sees. “This is no way to live, not for someone like you.”  
  
She waits, watching him. After a while he turns his head to face her. “We’d take care of him,” he says. “We’re his family.”  
  
She watches him and he watches her back, and she listens, but she doesn’t hear _we don’t need you_ in his voice; he just sounds tired and sad. Finally, she turns back to her book, and her hair’s not as long as it once was, but it’s enough to hide her eyes.  
  
“My life is here,” she says.  
  
John sits for a little while longer, waiting, maybe, but she’s said everything she’s going to say on the subject, and eventually he grunts in a way that could be satisfaction or just aching joints, and stands, walking away from her without looking back.  
  
\----  
  
Sam has more visions, and they follow them. After Rockford, John checks local records and finds that people have been acting weird around the place, there have been deaths. Four days later, they’re standing in an orchard in Indiana and Sam’s pointing at a tree, telling them to burn it. Dean does, like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, and later they check the internet and find that a couple has been going missing near the town every year. John sits back in bemusement and says it’s the easiest hunt he’s ever been on. Sam’s talking to someone who isn’t there, though, so he doesn’t notice the compliment.  
  
At the end of May, John gets a call about a rawhead which precipitates a screaming match between John and Sam which leaves her breathless with its intensity. They each know exactly how to twist the knife, even though Sam’s accusations don’t make sense half the time. She sits on the bed next to Dean, takes in his hunched shoulders and miserable face, and wonders if this is what it was like for them, before.  
  
The fight culminates in Sam storming off, but they can’t let that happen, of course, Sam can’t be trusted on his own, so she and Dean go after him, only too happy to escape the confines of the motel room that suddenly seems impossibly small, certainly too small to contain all of John Winchester’s rage. They find Sam slashing the tyres of the Impala, and Dean bawls him out, but it's half-hearted, like he knows there’s something else going on here, like he can’t bring himself to yell when Sam’s wearing that face, the one that’s a mixture of defiance and desperation. When he’s done yelling, Sam hands him the knife and Dean calls a contact to go after the rawhead. They end up going down to Nebraska after some black magic faith healer instead.  
  
And through it all, they keep looking, keep trying to work out what it was that Sam spoke to that night in Palo Alto. They know more about it now – know that it can look like people it’s not, for example – but they’re still hitting a dead end. John is convinced it’s a demon, _the_ demon, the one Sam says killed Mary Winchester; since Sam’s psychic abilities became pretty clear reality, he’s been getting more and more interested in Sam’s notes, asking Sam about them, calling everyone he knows who knows anything about demons. She points out that, according to everything she’s read (and she’s read a lot, now, she feels like she’s read more in this past eight months than in the three years of college before that), demons can only possess people, not look like them, and Dean was with John when Sam saw him in Palo Alto, so he can’t have been possessed. It bounces off: John says they have nothing else to go on, that demons are tricky bastards, that no-one knows everything about them even after millennia of lore, and he’s right, of course, but at the same time it’s what he wants to believe, and that’s dangerous.   
  
They could ask Sam, of course, and she does, because someone’s got to. Dean doesn’t go near the subject; when there’s mention of that night, of the fact that it was someone who looked like him that Sam spoke to, his face shuts down, and she sees the resemblance then, father and son, silent and morose. She tries to reassure him at first, let him know that they know it’s not his fault, but Sam still thinks it was him, and that seems to be all that matters to Dean. As for John, well, who knows what goes on in his mind? So it’s left to her, and she asks, every now and then when Sam seems most lucid, asks him about that night and what Dean told him. His answers are confusing most of the time and nonsensical more often than not, but she’s piecing it together slowly: she thinks Sam had his first vision that night, that the vision had something to do with her (she thinks she died in it, but she doesn’t press that line of questioning, because the idea that the supernatural already had her marked when she still thought she was living a normal life, that she was destined never to be normal again, is something that makes her gut twist in apprehension), and that Dean, or whatever was pretending to be Dean, told Sam he could stop it from happening if he left town, cut off all ties and gave up everything. It’s huge progress, but at the same time she has no idea if the thing that was pretending to be Dean caused the vision, if the vision caused Sam’s confused state of mind or if that came later, and most importantly, what exactly it was that Sam spoke to. The only thing she does know is that it wasn’t Dean.  
  
She keeps asking, though, and she’s asking one night in June, reaching that stage of frustration and despair which she knows from experience immediately precedes John or Dean – it doesn’t matter which, they act interchangeably in this matter, brusque and snappish, biting off words – stepping in and saying enough’s enough. Sam is pale and mumbling, and he always gets more incoherent the more she asks him to remember, like just the memory of that night is enough to unravel the fragile connections in his mind, but this time he’s really out of it. _He’s gone_ , she thinks, ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and fifty-two days_ ), and suddenly his head snaps up and he’s looking at her, actually looking at _her_ (because she can tell now, she can tell when he’s seeing her and when he’s not).  
  
“Why do you always say that?” he asks, and she frowns, because she hasn’t said anything for at least a minute, losing the energy to carry on with her questions.  
  
“Say what?” she asks.  
  
Sam shakes his head, frowning too. “I’m not gone,” he says, “I’m right here,” and before she has the chance to figure out the significance of that statement he falls off the bed, he’s on his hands and knees on the floor with his head low, making a noise that she thinks she’s always hated even though she never heard it before today.  
  
Dean’s up in an instant and on his knees beside Sam a second later, and she’s only just behind him, not crowding, gripping Sam’s ankle for support (she’s not sure whose). John’s presence hovers behind them, and she finds it oddly comforting.  
  
It’s a vision, of course, but it’s the worst one they’ve seen yet; Sam’s nose is bleeding, and he tosses his head, grunting and groaning. When it’s finally done, he rolls and throws up on the floor. She grips his ankle a little tighter, and Dean rubs his back, making the wordless soothing noises her mother always used to calm her with when she got sick. He glances back at her, and his eyes are frightened.  
  
Sam retches a couple more times, then tries to struggle to his feet. Dean pushes him onto the bed, but Sam shakes his head, fisting trembling hands in his hair.  
  
“Saginaw,” he croaks. “We need to go, we’re going to be too late, Dean, _Dean_.”  
  
“No way,” says Dean. “You’re a mess, little brother. We’re not going anywhere.”  
  
Sam looks up, and his nose is still trickling blood. “We’re going to be too late,” he says.  
  
\----  
  
They’re in a routine now, John in the truck, the rest of them in the Impala, and usually Sam takes shotgun but tonight he’s sprawled out in the back seat, his eyes barely open. Dean’s worried; she would know it even if his jaw wasn’t clenched, if his knuckles weren’t white on the wheel, because she’s worried too, she’s practically out of her mind, and she and Dean only have one thing in common, but it’s their whole life.  
  
She hates the visions, hates how they hurt Sam, how they come on without warning, but most of all she hates how she can’t do anything to help. Sam always comes out of them even more confused, always has a headache for hours afterwards, but he’s never had one like this, and they wouldn’t even be out here now with Sam in the state he’s in except that they know from experience that if they don’t follow the visions, they just get worse, and none of them want to see worse than that one. They’re two hours from Saginaw, and Dean’s driving like a maniac, not even listening to that godawful music that she knows every word of now, just staring at the road like it’s his worst enemy.   
  
It’s after midnight when they hit Saginaw. Sam’s not making sense, he’s slurring his words and his pupils are blown, but they manage to get an address out of him. When they pull up outside the house, it’s surrounded by civilians ( _Jesus Christ, she thinks of them as civilians now_ ), the flashing lights of the police and ambulance illuminating their faces like crazy neon ghosts.  
  
Dean kills the engine and swears. “We’re too late,” he says.  
  
She swallows and glances in the back seat. Sam’s nose has started bleeding again.


	14. Chapter 14

In the end, it’s Sam who has the idea that gets them through the door.  
  
The police, the family – they think it’s a suicide, that the man – Jim Miller – killed himself. It’s what it looks like, God, the garage door was locked from the inside, there’s no signs of foul play, nothing weird about it at all. Except there is something weird, there’s Sam still out of it the next morning, sleeping fitfully and still having trouble speaking clearly. There’s Sam, Sam and Sam’s visions, and a year ago she would have looked and said _suicide_ too, but she knows so much more now.  
  
The problem is, though, that there’s no _evidence_ , nothing that can give them an in as reporters or FBI agents or any of the usual tricks they employ (and she doesn’t even know whether to include herself in that _they_ , she doesn’t want to, but she thinks maybe she has to). The family’s grieving, and even John seems to acknowledge that they can’t just barge in there and start asking questions. They’re talking about it, arguing, trying to keep their voices low because Sam’s still sleeping, when he turns over suddenly and frowns, eyes still closed.  
  
“Jesus, Dean,” he says, “we can’t go as _priests_. That’s gotta be blasphemy or something.”  
  
Dean’s sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, and he looks over, frowns. “Sammy?” he asks, but Sam’s asleep, Sam can’t hear him ( _Sam’s listening to someone else_ ).  
  
“Priests,” says John, and they have their way in.  
  
\----  
  
She can’t be a priest, so she settles for _counsellor_ , finds a long floral-print skirt at goodwill while Dean’s getting a dog-collar from wherever it is he gets these things, and a white shirt to go with it. In the mirror, she looks _respectable_ , but she knows it’s a lie, knows it because she _was_ respectable once, and this is not what that feels like.   
  
The mother lets them in without question, and she feels it again, the pang of guilt, here’s a woman whose husband has just _died_ and really, is she any better than ambulance-chasing lawyers or lying journalists? She’s trying to help them, she keeps reminding herself, but really, she’s not. She’s not in this for them, the people they save, she’s in it for _Sam_ , and she wonders what that makes her in the grand scheme of things.  
  
Dean’s not a convincing priest, but John’s not the sort of person people tend to let over their doorsteps; she’s the one who does the smiling, the sincerity, and it’s not the first time, not even the second, that she wonders when this part, the convincing, the _lying_ , became her job ( _and whether it was Sam’s job first_ ). She’s long since learned, though, that it’s best not to think about it, and really, with Sam’s visions they don’t have to do this too often, usually he’s specific, stops the problem before it starts. He was too late this time, though. They were all too late.  
  
She does her duty, talks to the mother, the boy; he looks young, late teens at most, but she discovers he’s their age, hers and Sam’s, twenty-three years old and still stuck at home, waiting for his chance at freedom. His face is pinched and tired, and it doesn’t look new, doesn’t look like it’s just the result of his father’s unexpected death. She wonders if this is what Sam would be like, if he hadn’t got away; then she remembers what Sam _is_ like, and she doesn’t know who’s the lucky one any more.  
  
There’s nothing, though. A grieving family, a house full of well-wishers oppressing even her and Dean, total strangers, with their suffocating concern, plates of food and the weightlessness that exists before realisation and despair set in. No EMF readings, no ghosts, nothing that says _foul play_ , and if it wasn’t for the memory of Sam vomiting on the motel carpet, blood streaming out of his nose, she would think there was nothing more to see.  
  
As it is, she knows they’re missing something.  
  
\----  
  
“Nothing,” says Dean, shaking his head. It’s evening, and they’ve been searching through newspaper archives since they left the Millers’, but there’s no evidence that the house has ever been haunted, ever been anything other than a family home. John’s cleaning the arsenal, guns spread out across the bed, and that’s not strange to her either. For a moment, she remembers how she felt when Dean found the gun in their apartment and threw it on the bed, on their _bed_ ; now, she sleeps with one under the pillow ( _just in case_ ). _Respectable_.  
  
“Too late,” says Sam. He’s standing by the wall, staring at an article taped to it, worrying at the hem of his shirt with his right hand. “I don’t... I don’t understand it. It’s supposed, we’re, why were we too late?” He glances over his shoulder at Dean, like he’s waiting for some kind of explanation, but Dean can only shrug.  
  
“Maybe your visions are out of whack,” he says. “That was some pretty bad shit, Sammy. Maybe that’s got something to do with it.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, then sways and puts a hand on the wall. Dean grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Maybe it’s not the house,” she says; she’s watching Sam and Dean, like always, but she’s thinking too, because this case gives her the creeps, even more than usual, and she wants it _done_. “Maybe it’s connected to the family?”  
  
John’s lips twitch slightly as he peers through the barrel of a .45; he’s thinking too, but then, he always is.  
  
“I guess.” Dean takes a step towards her, reaches for a sheaf of papers on the table. “The name didn’t raise any flags in the police database, but--”  
  
And Sam makes that noise again, that noise that makes her want to scream, and drops to his hands and knees on the floor.  
  
\----  
  
It’s another bad one, as bad as the last one, if not worse, and Sam’s barely conscious when it’s done (she feels like maybe she’s barely conscious herself, worry thrumming high and loud in her brain, pushing against the edges of her skull), but he grabs her (grabs _her_ , and maybe it’s just because she’s closer, but maybe, maybe) and hisses an address, barely comprehensible. John’s up and barking orders before the words have even finished leaving Sam’s mouth, and a moment later, John and Dean gone, and she’s crouching on the carpet, the fingers of Sam’s good hand still tangled in her blouse, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence.  
  
“God,” he whispers. “Too, too late. Too late again.”  
  
The words are stretched, twisted, they sound _wrong_ , like Sam can’t quite remember how to make his lips and tongue work in tandem. She looks down at his face, and there’s blood and sweat and tangled hair, but it’s more than that, Sam looks _different_ , not the Sam she knew, a lifetime ago and half a country away. She wonders if he’s changed, or if this was always what he was like, underneath, the Sam that he would never show her.  
  
“Baby,” she whispers, putting her hand on his cheek. All she wants to do is make it better, make _this_ better. She doesn’t want this for them, doesn’t want it for _him_ , ghosts and demons and visions and nosebleeds, cheap motel sheets and cockroaches and never going home; this is not the life they were supposed to have.  
  
“Can’t,” Sam says, his head lolling back, and she puts her hand under it, feels the greasy hair against her palm and the warmth of Sam’s skin underneath. “Can’t go back,” says Sam. “Never could, never could have that, Jess, tried, I tried.”  
  
“Sh,” she says, trying to make sense of what he’s saying, and that’s strange, too, because there was a time after they got Sam back when she stopped trying, stopped believing there _was_ any sense behind Sam’s words, and she wonders when that changed. “It’s OK, baby.”  
  
“No, no,” says Sam, letting go of her blouse and winding his fingers in her hair. “You could, you _could_. I didn’t want to take it from you, Jess. You don’t need to, this doesn’t have to be your, your life.”  
  
She remembers suddenly what Sam said right before he had the first devastating vision the night before, like he was reading her mind, and her belly twists, because _why not_ , Sam can see the future, for God’s sake, why wouldn’t he be able to--  
  
 _Can you hear what I’m thinking?_ she thinks, as loud as she can. Sam just stares up at her, pupils huge and black, blood drying under his nose. “I love you,” he says.  
  
She gets a pillow from the bed to prop his head up and goes to fetch water and a cloth. The knot in her stomach is still there, but there’s warmth filling it, too.  
  
\----  
  
She wakes with a start to find it’s morning, and for a moment, she thinks maybe, _maybe_ the whole thing was a dream, because Sam’s sleeping next to her in the bed and the light is streaming in through the curtains and it could have been, couldn’t it have been? Then she registers the narrowness of the bed, the smell of bleach from the pillowcase, and Dean Winchester sitting in an armchair, watching her, and she realises that if anything was a dream, it was the life she had back then.  
  
She sits up and stretches, careful not to jog Sam. His eyelids look pale, almost blue, like he could see through them if he really tried, and the fingers of his right hand twitch like he’s dreaming about playing the piano ( _though she thinks probably he’s dreaming about something much worse than that_ ).  
  
“When did you get back?” she asks Dean, keeping her voice low. She’s still wearing her counsellor outfit, the white blouse crumpled and bloodstained now ( _not so respectable any more_ ); she must have fallen asleep when she crawled onto the bed to make sure Sam was OK ( _to be close to Sam_ ).  
  
“Couple hours after we left,” murmurs Dean. “Didn’t want to wake you.”  
  
She wants to thank him, but it feels strange; she wonders how long he was watching them, wonders if he felt excluded the way she always does when she sees the two of them together. “What happened?” she asks.  
  
Dean’s eyes flick to Sam, then back to her. “Miller’s brother got killed,” he says, practically whispering. “Can’t have been suicide.”  
  
“You couldn’t do anything?” she knows what Dean’s going to say before he says it, but she has to ask.  
  
“We were too late,” says Dean, and she doesn’t need to say what she’s thinking, because she knows he’s thinking it too.  
  
\----  
  
Dad looked old.   
  
Dean didn’t know when it had happened, whether it was in the last year or before that, creeping up on them all. He didn’t remember a time when Dad hadn’t looked tired ( _except sometimes, when he remembered bright hair and a warm laugh and a gentle voice singing him to sleep_ ), but this was more than tired, this was _old_ , and maybe it was Sam having visions that were doing God knew what to his brain, maybe it was Sam being crazy, maybe it was Sam going missing, God, maybe it was even Sam going to Stanford and somehow Dean just hadn’t noticed it until now; but whatever it was, Dad looked old, and Dean was pretty sure that if he looked in the mirror, he’d look old, too.  
  
“Too late again,” said Sam. He was curled in the bed, where Dean had shoved him last time he tried to move, and God, he looked old too, twenty-three years and old already.   
  
“Not your fault, Sammy,” said Dean, paging through papers from the next town over looking for any information on the Millers. Dad and Jessica had left half an hour before to quiz the family again, and he knew really, it should have been him, he was the one who’d been there the previous day, after all, he was supposed to be the goddamn _priest_ , but Jesus, after last night, after watching Sam convulsing on the floor and having to leave, having to show up too late to Roger Miller’s while Sam was still-- No. He couldn’t just leave again, not this time.  
  
“I don’t, I don’t get it,” said Sam, and Dean looked up from the papers (nothing in them anyway, no sign of anything weird) to see him rubbing a hand across his eyes. “It was always, I mean, Dean, you said we could, I could help, I’m supposed to be able to _help_. Why am I too late?” He struggled into a sitting position and stared, and Dean felt weird, like he was being accused of something.   
  
“Hey, like I know about your freaky visions,” he said. “Maybe your brain’s cooked from thinking too much.” And that wasn’t really funny, because maybe it _was_.  
  
“No,” Sam said, and he was getting out of the bed now, starting to pace, shit, getting agitated, two fucking killer visions in two days and now he was getting worked up about things that none of them could change. “You _told_ me, you said, you said.”  
  
Dean felt his guts turn over. This wasn’t random ( _crazy_ ) Sam accusations; this was about _him_ , the thing that had pretended to be Dean, pretended to be fucking _Dean_ and fucked Sam up, and Dean just couldn’t, he couldn’t goddamn _stand it_. “Dammit, Sam,” he said, jumping up and getting in Sam’s way, grabbing his wrists. “Just shut up, OK? _Shut up_.”  
  
Sam blinked at him, then his face set, mutinous. “You’re so,” he said, and then, “Dean, I just, why can’t you just _tell_ me?”  
  
“Because it wasn’t fucking _me_!” Dean said. “Don’t you get that? God, Sam, why can’t you just _believe_ me?”  
  
Sam’s face twisted like he was about to yell something back, and then his eyes widened. “Shit, Dean,” he whispered, and that was all the warning Dean got before Sam crumpled, and suddenly Dean’s grip on his wrists was the only thing holding Sam up, and shit, shit, it was another vision, Dean didn’t know how much more of this he could take, both of them on the floor and Sam keening, jerking, Dean didn’t have a clue what he was doing, he just wanted, he just wanted all of this to _end_.  
  
When it was over, Dean realised his jaw was aching from being clenched too tight, and Sam was stumbling to his feet already ( _Jesus fucking Christ_ ), swiping at the blood under his nose and mumbling. Dean was up and grabbing him by the shoulder before he got halfway across the room, “Fuck, Sam, no, you’re hurt, you’ve got to--”  
  
“Got to go,” Sam said, eyes wide and pulling at Dean’s grip. “Can’t be too late again, Dean, Dean, God, he’s going to kill her.”  
  
“I’ll call Dad,” said Dean. “Dad’ll take care of it, Sammy, tell me what you saw.” He was groping for his cell phone with the hand that wasn’t holding Sam, but Sam pulling hard, _shit_ , Sam jerked and suddenly Dean’s fingers were closing on empty air and the door banged and Sam was gone. “Fuck,” muttered Dean, and started to run.  
  
Sam was picking the lock of the Impala when Dean got outside, but he was doing a piss-poor job of it, hands shaking too hard to manage. “For fuck’s sake,” Dean said. “Sam, we are _not_ doing this.”  
  
Sam straightened up, leaning against the roof of the car. A blood vessel had burst in one of his eyes, and it made him look alien, wild. Dean wondered if he looked the same.  
  
“Why did you give me this?” Sam asked.  
  
“What?” Dean scrambled to catch up, always behind these days, Sam’s thoughts were so freakin _weird_ and he always seemed to think that Dean would just _get it_ ( _failing your brother again, Dean_ ).  
  
“ _This_ ,” said Sam, gesturing at his head with his fucked-up hand ( _failing your brother_ ), eyes rolling, black and red and almost inhuman. “Why did, why did you _give_ it to me if you’re not going to let me _help_?”  
  
Dean opened his mouth, ready to start another round, _not me not me I didn’t do it Sam can’t you even tell that it wasn’t_ me _?_ , except that someone was going to die and for all Dean wanted, _needed_ to make Sam _realise_ , if they were too late again things were only going to get worse ( _and Dean was tired, he was too fucking_ tired _to have that conversation again_ ). He snapped his mouth shut and pulled the car keys out of his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said.  
  
\----  
  
Dad and Jessica were all the way across town interviewing some old neighbour of the Millers or some shit like that, and Dean and Sam were the advance guard. It felt weird, having Sam there but not Dad, like there was something missing, but there wasn’t time to think about that, because Sam was opening the car door before he’d even finished pulling over and staggering towards the house. “Shit,” muttered Dean, grabbing his gun and following.  
  
Sam hadn’t said much coherent on the way over, but Dean was pretty sure that somehow these murders had something to do with the Miller kid, Max, which made no freakin sense because no way in hell was that scrawny little guy a supernatural being, but hey, it wasn’t like anything else made any sense these days either, so it was just one more thing to add to the list. He caught up just as Sam burst through the door, and shoved himself in front, hand on the gun tucked in his waistband, ready for whatever the fuck was going on.  
  
What was going on, as it turned out, was Mrs. Miller chopping vegetables.   
  
“Father Simmons,” she said, looking up in surprise, and the kid was there, too, Max.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked.  
  
“Uh,” said Dean, because he was way out of his depth here, had no clue what was going on, and Sam was just standing there, staring. “Sorry to interrupt.”  
  
“Who--” started Mrs. Miller, but Sam suddenly started talking.  
  
“Max,” he said, and the kid’s gaze snapped to him, making the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. “Could we, uh—could we talk to you outside for just one second?”  
  
“Who are you?” Max asked, frowning, and OK, maybe Dean could believe that this little snot was behind all this shit, because he looked pretty much like he was ready to murder someone right now.  
  
“This is my associate, Father Frehly,” said Dean, thinking fast (and shit, like they were just going to _believe_ him, because Sam’s face was smeared with sweat and blood, and he looked about as much like a priest as, well, as Dean).  
  
The thing was, though, they did. It was like the word _father_ opened this magic door, and for just a moment, Dean thought maybe they were going to get away with this, whatever the hell _this_ was. Right up until the door handle suddenly jerked out of his hand and all the windows in the house slammed shut simultaneously and Dean’s gun was pulled out of his hand by an invisible force (an _invisible_ fucking _force_ ) before he could even taken aim properly. That’s when Dean knew that they were in deep, deep shit.   
  
The freakish thing about it was, Sam, Sam who got freaked by every fucking thing and would start yelling about nothing and talked to the air half the time, Sam was just standing there talking calmly to Max like he was _Sam_ , for all the world like whatever was broken in his mind had fixed itself, just like that. Dean heard something about visions and death, and then he focussed suddenly, because Sam was talking about sending him away, Sam was talking about being alone with this little fucking freak _bastard_.  
  
“Nuh uh,” he said, “no way.”  
  
Overhead, the light fitting started to sway. This was so fucked up, and Dean had no idea what was going on, but he knew that it was big, it was something _big_.  
  
“Nobody leaves this house!” yelled Max, and Dean resisted the urge to jump forward and beat the shit out of the kid only because he had a gun ( _Dean’s fucking gun, goddamn dumbshit_ ) levelled at Sam.   
  
“And nobody has to, all right?” Sam said, calmly and quietly, and Dean _knew_ that tone because it was the one he used on _Sam_. “They’ll just—they’ll just go upstairs.”  
  
Like fucking hell. “Sam, I’m not leaving’ you alone with him.” Where the fuck was Dad?  
  
“Yes, you are.” said Sam. “Look, Max, you’re in charge here, all right? We all know that. No one's going to do anything that you don’t want to, but I’m talking five minutes here, man.”  
  
“Sam,” said Dean, but Sam put his hand up, and Max was nodding slowly, looking at Sam like somehow he was a friend.  
  
“Five minutes,” he said, and Dean hesitated, but Sam shot him a look and jerked his head at the kitchen. The woman, Mrs. Miller, was lying on the floor and Dean realised he had no fucking idea how she’d got there, but her head was bleeding, and Dean knew what Sam was saying. _Save her. You have to save her_.  
  
It was what Dean did, what _they_ did, Winchesters, always there to save people. And so it was what Dean did now, even as he felt his skin tightening in fear.  
  
\-----  
  
“Here,” said Dean, putting the cloth to Mrs. Miller’s forehead. Her cut wasn’t bad, normally probably not even something he would look at, but he had to do _something_ while Sam was downstairs with Max ( _alone with Max_ ), something to stop himself just storming back down those stairs and breaking the goddamn kid’s neck. _Five minutes_ , that was what Sam had said, and Dean was counting the seconds, because if it went any longer, he was going to beat the shit out of _someone_ (and right now, he didn’t much care who).   
  
The bedroom door swung open, and Dean turned ( _it’s Sam, it’s gotta be Sam_ ) to find Max in the doorway. Rage surged up in his gut ( _where the fuck is Sam, what did you do to him you bastard_ ), and he started to walk forward, but something picked him up and flung him backwards, smashing him against the wall hard enough to wind him, and _shit_ , Max was pulling out the gun ( _the gun_ Dean _brought_ ), leaving it hanging in the air like it was on a string or something, pointed at Mrs. Miller.   
  
“No,” she said, “Max”, and Dean started forward, _gotta get between the civilian and the gun_.  
  
“Stay back,” said Max, calm, like there was nothing left to be scared of now. “It’s not about you.” Which was really not that comforting, given that the gun was pointed at him now.  
  
“If you want to kill her, you gotta got through me first,” said Dean, because that was always the kind of thing they said in the movies, and, well, it made his point pretty well ( _and where the fuck is my brother, bitch?_ ).  
  
“OK,” said Max, and Dean was just thinking that maybe he’d seriously miscalculated when the door burst open again and Sam stumbled through, bleeding again, hair matted and eyes wild, and Dean just had time to think _he looks like he’s had another vision_ when Sam started talking, yelling and pleading, trying to convince Max that his life was worth something, and all Dean could think was _he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. He sounds_ sane. And it wasn’t the first time he’d had the creeping thought that Jessica was right, that Sam was a nu--, was mentally ill, but the contrast was so fucking _stark_ , even babbling here Sam sounded so different, so _in control_ , and Dean was still tangled up in wondering about it when the gun went off and Max slumped to the ground.  
  
Sam’s face went suddenly slack, like whatever had been holding him together had just snapped. Dean didn’t even spare a glance for the body on the floor ( _sick fucking freak_ ), was at Sam’s side, checking him over, _you’re OK, right, he didn’t do anything to you?_  
  
Sam looked up at Dean with dull eyes. “It’s the same,” he said. “It was the same, Dean. It’s never been the same before.”  
  
Dean thought about asking what Sam meant, but he didn’t have the strength.  
  
\----  
  
It’s been a long day, a long week. Max Miller is dead, and she can’t feel sorry, even though she knows she should, knows that he had a terrible life, a terrible death. She knows that Sam feels sorry, knows it from the things he whispers, curled up on the bed, face clean now but no way to erase the blood-covered spectre she saw when they finally got the door open from her mind. None of them know everything about what happened in the Miller house, except maybe Sam, and he can’t or won’t tell them, muttering about being too late and things being the same, eyes glazed and drifting. Dean thinks he had another vision in the house, which makes four in three days, and she’s terrified, terrified that this is how they’ll be now, wrenching his brain so hard that soon there’ll be nothing left, not even the fragments they have now. She can’t lose Sam again. She won’t.  
  
“I don’t give a shit,” mutters Dean, and she glances over. He’s packing his stuff, and she should be, too, but she doesn’t want to leave Sam, doesn’t want him out of her sight ( _because what if he has another vision and dies when she’s not there?_ ) John’s sitting in the corner of the room, watching, like always, and he’s not packing either, and she wonders how similar his reasons are to hers. They’re all tired, so goddamn tired, and she thinks Dean doesn’t even realise he’s spoken aloud.  
  
“What?” she asks. The last thing they need is someone else having conversations with the air.  
  
Dean looks up, face tight. “I don’t care if he got beaten on,” he says. “He was a killer.”  
  
She wonders if Dean can read her thoughts, too, if maybe he’s going crazy, like Sam. Wonders if maybe they’re all crazy, if they’ve all been crazy all along.  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” says Sam, and they look round. He’s looking across the room towards them, seems to be talking to them. Dean opens his mouth, but Sam isn’t finished. “Aren’t you worried, man? Aren’t you worried that I could turn into Max or something?”  
  
Dean frowns, and she feels her own face draw down. “What are you talking about, Sammy?” he asks. “Why would I think that?”  
  
“No,” says Sam. “Why?” and she’s getting the feeling that actually, he’s not talking to them, to Dean, after all, but Dean pushes on.  
  
“You’re nothing like Max,” he says. “You got that, Sam?”  
  
Sam shifts in the bed, sits up straighter. “Dad? Because Dad’s not here, Dean.”  
  
She glances at John, and Dean does the same. His face doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes, and she wonders if that’s what hurt looks like on John Winchester’s face.  
  
“Dad’s right here,” Dean says, taking a step forward and gesturing at John. “He’s right _here_ , Sam.”  
  
“Where?” says Sam, and Dean’s face rearranges itself several times, incredulous to angry to disappointed to tired.   
  
“Here, Sammy,” says John, unfolding himself from the chair and stepping into the light. “I’m right here.” She looks over in surprise, because somehow she’s always surprised to hear him speak, the deep tone of his voice seeming like it’s coming from the earth itself, and here, here there’s a gentleness she’s rarely heard from him before. Sam looks up at him, and then at her, and finally at Dean.  
  
“It’s not the same any more,” he says, dropping his gaze to his lap. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s OK, Sam.” It’s what they always say, what _Dean_ always says, but this time it’s not Dean, it’s John, and he sounds so fucking _tired_. “It’s gonna be OK.”  
  
\----  
  
They leave Saginaw the same night ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and fifty-four days_ ), and for a week, Sam doesn’t have any visions. When one finally comes, she’s almost relieved, because it’s just a normal one ( _a normal vision_ ), just a headache and shaking hands, not blood and vomit, not blown pupils and God knows what going on inside. They call the police in Hibbing, Minnesota about a gang of serial killers there, and wonder why Sam is having visions of non-supernatural things. They move across the country, hunting and researching, trying to figure out what’s going on with Sam, with the demon that may have killed Mary Winchester and may have driven her son out of his mind, with their lives.  
  
They still have to live, for all that life isn’t what it once was; they have to do laundry and buy groceries and hustle pool (and she’s not sure when she started thinking of that as a domestic chore, but she’s given up counting the things that have changed in her life). She’s _convincing_ as a social worker or local government official, but she sucks at pool and at poker, so she stays behind in Joliet when Dean and John go to get their next week’s grocery money. Sam’s sleeping fitfully ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and seventy days_ ), and she sits on the bed next to him, watches infomercials because she’s too tired to research any more.   
  
Around nine, Dean comes back.  
  
“You’re early,” she says.  
  
He shrugs. “Slim pickings. Dad stayed out, see if he can find a card game. Anything good on TV?”  
  
She shakes her head. “Is there ever?”  
  
He stops by the bed, looks down at Sam, face weirdly blank. “Listen, Jessica, you think I could have a little time alone with Sam? There’s something I want to talk to him about.”  
  
She doesn’t want to leave, not really, feels the warmth of Sam against her leg like it’s something untainted by all this mess. But Dean is Sam’s brother, and she’s got used to the idea that he’s the most important thing in Sam’s world (she doesn’t _like_ it, but she’s used to it), and she’s tired, anyway, ready for bed, so she goes, closes the door on them and goes back to her own room, quiet and empty and somehow still buzzing with _John_.  
  
She can’t sleep, though, lies on her back staring at the ceiling for an hour before deciding to go back. It’s summer, and even harsh with gasoline fumes from the neighbouring road, the air feels soft against her skin. She stops at the door to Sam and Dean’s room, because there are raised voices – or Sam’s voice is raised, anyway, she can’t hear Dean. _I don’t understand_ why, she hears, and then decides that she doesn’t want to intrude on this, whatever it is, and goes for a walk instead, breathing in the night air and pretending she’s on vacation. It’s not until she’s circled the tiny patch of greenery across from the motel three times that she looks up and realises something’s wrong, because John’s truck is pulling up in the parking lot, and the light’s dim, but she’s pretty sure she sees John getting out of it, and OK, that’s not weird in itself, that’s fine, except for--  
  
Except for how she left Dean with Sam, but Dean’s getting out of the truck, too.


	15. Chapter 15

She’s running before her mind has finished making all the connections, the steel-capped boots she always wears these days (when she’s not trying to be _respectable_ ) loud on the asphalt, loud enough that Dean and John turn towards her before she’s even crossed half the distance between them, worry surging on their faces in an instant (because none of them are ever far from worry these days). She skids to a halt in front of Dean, feels her heart hammering in her ears.  
  
“You went, you went back to fetch John,” she says, because she wants to be wrong, wants _so hard_ to be wrong (even though she _knows_ she’s not, Dean would never leave Sam alone, never).  
  
He stares at her, grabs her wrists. “What?” he says. “Where’s Sam?”  
  
She can’t even speak, looks at the door of the room, and then Dean’s got her by the hand, he’s running, dragging her, as if she’s not already running as fast as she can ( _maybe faster than she’s ever run before_ ). John’s got longer legs than both of them, reaches the door first, and it’s not locked, it swings open even as he’s raising his foot to kick it, and in that moment she knows without a doubt that she’s lost Sam again, she’s screwed up so bad and she’s lost Sam, they’ve all lost Sam ( _she can’t lose Sam again_ ).  
  
Then she’s at the door, too, pushing through after Dean ( _always last_ ), and she stops dead, because Sam’s there, he’s lying asleep on the bed and he’s _there_ , and she thinks maybe she’s going to lose it right here and now in this crappy motel room in a town whose name she doesn’t even remember.  
  
Dean’s the first to reach Sam, because John’s scanning the room, gun out, moving towards the bathroom with a silence that’s freakish for such a big man, _would_ be freakish if she hadn’t seen him do it a hundred times before, and she’s too stunned to move, still standing in the doorway and staring. Dean kneels by the side of the bed, and Sam’s awake now, sitting up, looking tired and confused ( _Sam’s always confused_ ).  
  
“Sammy?” says Dean. “You OK? Sammy?”  
  
Sam frowns at him, then at her. John comes out of the bathroom, shaking his head, and she doesn’t know, she has _no idea_ what’s going on.  
  
“What’s going on?” asks Sam, and she wonders about him again, wonders how much he sees when he looks at them.  
  
“Did you--” Dean puts a hand on either side of Sam’s face, turns it to face him, “Sam, did it hurt you? Huh? You OK?”  
  
Sam’s blinking slowly, like he doesn’t understand what’s being said to him, and he looks physically fine ( _exhausted, worn thin, fraying_ ), but that’s just the tip of the iceberg, _God_ , it’s not _physical_ problems that they need to worry about with Sam these days (or at least, not _only_ physical problems), and he looks so lost that for a moment she thinks maybe he’s lost what’s left of his mind, that that _thing_ whatever it was ( _that thing she left alone with Sam_ ) came back to finish the job. Then Sam seems to shake himself and reach up to pull Dean’s hands away.  
  
“I’m, I’m,” he says, frowning. “Did you forget something?”  
  
Dean sags, sitting back on his heels, face looking hollow and ill in the sickly lamplight. “I didn’t--” he says, then, “Sam, did you talk to-- Did you just talk to me? Just now?” His voice is thick and heavy, and she feels her throat closing up at the sound of it.  
  
“I--” Sam glances at her, then back at his brother. “I was sleeping,” he says.  
  
“What about before that?” Dean asks, insistent, and he’s reaching out again now, gripping the edge of Sam’s bed. “What happened before that, Sammy?”  
  
“You, you.” Sam stops suddenly and looks at her again, then at John, who’s standing in the bathroom doorway watching. “I’m not supposed-- I was sleeping.”  
  
“Dammit, Sam!” Dean says, and his hand moves, twitches convulsively, and she thinks _he’s going to hit him, he’s going to hit Sam_ , and that’s enough, that’s _enough_.  
  
“Just leave him alone,” she says, and she’s surprised by how weak and hoarse her voice sounds, because in her head it’s a righteous shout. “He’s been through enough tonight, OK?”   
  
Dean’s on his feet before she’s even finished speaking, advancing on her, fists clenched at his sides, eyes narrowed and bright, and she’s seen that look before, she’s always hoped it’ll never be turned on her, and now it is, and she braces herself because there’s no way to defend herself against this Dean, and she’s not even sure she wants to, not sure she deserves to be defended ( _I left Sam alone_ ).  
  
“Fuck you, Jessica,” says Dean, and he stops just short of her, breathing hard. “ _Fuck_ you. If you hadn’t--” And then he clamps his mouth shut suddenly, like he’s afraid of what he might say next. She knows, though ( _and she deserves it_ ).  
  
“I know,” she says. “I know, I’m sorry.” _I’m so fucking sorry_.  
  
“Sorry,” Dean says, and then laughs, high-pitched and strange, not _Dean_. “What the fuck use is sorry? We’re all _sorry_.”  
  
She takes a step back, feeling his eyes drilling into her like it’s real, like there’s really something hot and sharp against her skin. She doesn’t know what else to say, because he’s right, God, she’s sorry ( _sorry sorry sorry_ ) but it’s not enough, she left Sam and it could have ( _it may have_ )--  
  
“Jesus,” says Dean. “Jesus, Jessica, what the fuck did you think you were doing? What did _we_ think we were doing?” He gestures wildly, and she backs up again, but he’s pushing forward now, and she knows how strong he is, knows how skilled he is ( _knows how much he loves his brother_ ), and she hears John say _Dean, she couldn’t have known_ and then Dean is stopping, suddenly, like he’s hit a wall, eyes going wide in surprise. Her back hits the wall, but Dean doesn’t come any closer, and something’s weird, something’s _wrong_.  
  
“Sam,” says Dean, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, and seeing Dean that still is like watching a paused movie of a waterfall or something, it looks fake, unnatural. Then John says _Sam_ , and she shifts, looks beyond Dean, and Sam’s standing by the bed with his right hand fisted in his hair and sweat standing out on his forehead, staring at his brother.   
  
“Don’t,” says Sam. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”  
  
John’s moving, now, reaching an arm out to Sam. “Let your brother go,” he says, sharp, like he’s angry ( _scared_ ), and suddenly it falls into place, Dean’s not moving because Sam’s stopping him, Sam’s _stopping_ him without touching him and what the _hell_? And then John’s hand lands on Sam’s shoulder and Sam staggers, closes his eyes and drops, landing hard on his knees on the threadbare carpet.   
  
Dean jolts back into movement like someone’s flipped a switch, staggering forward towards her and then regaining his balance, turning towards Sam, always turning towards Sam. John’s holding Sam up now, one hand on each shoulder, and Sam’s eyes are open but his head is lolling slightly.  
  
“Don’t you ever do that again,” says John. “Sam? Are you listening to me?”  
  
“Jesus,” says Dean, and he’s on his knees now, too, the three of them always on the same level. “Jesus, Dad, don’t.”  
  
“Didn’t--” says Sam, and then lists to the left, Dean’s hand shooting out to right him even as his father steadies him. Sam’s head turns slightly, and he’s staring at Dean, blinking slowly. “She’s my,” he says. “She’s Jess. Don’t hurt her.”  
  
His eyes slip closed, and Dean and John don’t even exchange looks, just haul Sam up and into the bed, and even after all these months it’s still strange to see how in tune they are with each other. Sam curls on his side, eyes still closed, and Dean pulls the covers over him and turns to look at her.  
  
“God,” he says. “God.”  
  
She can’t help but agree.  
  
\----  
  
Dean’s losing it.  
  
“Shapeshifter,” he says in a harsh whisper, and John shakes his head.  
  
“Demon,” he says. “Gotta be the Demon.”  
  
Dean’s pacing up and down, clenching his fists like he has no idea what to do with his hands. It’s getting light outside, and none of them have slept ( _none of them except Sam_ ) and the conversation’s going nowhere, John tight-mouthed and adamant, Dean unable to keep still, and he reminds her of someone, but it takes her two hours to realise it, two hours to look at the pacing and the flared nostrils and the tension in his shoulders and think _he looks like Sam_. And if that’s true, if they’re losing Dean too, then they’re all screwed to hell.  
  
“Dammit,” says Dean, and even though he’s still whispering, his voice has an edge that makes her flinch back slightly in her chair. “Dad, there was – the shapeshifter in St. Louis, they’ve, they’re, maybe they want something, like, maybe they want to get Sam back, or--”  
  
John straightens his back slightly and Dean stops talking like he’s been given an order. “You think a shapeshifter did this to your brother?” John asks, and he doesn’t even look at Sam, doesn’t gesture to him, eyes fixed on Dean.   
  
Dean stands still, hands twitching at his sides, muscles standing out in his jaw, and she sees it, the look of resignation. “No, sir,” he mutters.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” says John. “We need to find out if there have been any demonic portents--”  
  
\--and she’s been keeping quiet for so long, listening to them argue in circles, and she doesn’t think it was a shapeshifter either, but God, John is so set on his demon idea, like now that he’s decided it _must_ be true, and there’s too much at stake, too _goddamn_ much. “Bobby said it wasn’t like any demon he’d ever heard of,” she said.  
  
John’s head snaps round at that, and Dean’s face twitches. “You’ve spoken to Bobby?” John says, slow and measured, and then he turns to look at his son. “Dean?”  
  
Dean pulls in his head, looks at the floor. “Just--” he says, but John’s already unfolding from his chair, and she remembers how Dean always waited until his father was out to call Bobby, and she never really thought about that before but now she thinks she’s made a mistake ( _another goddamn mistake_ ).  
  
“Dean, what did I tell you about--” John starts, but Dean is already speaking.  
  
“He knows more about demons than anyone,” he says, and John’s brows pull down, but Dean’s shaking his head, looking at his father now, nervous and apologetic and defiant all at once. “It’s Sam, Dad,” he says. “It’s _Sam_.”   
  
John looks for a moment like he’s going to argue, and she’s never spoken to Bobby, only heard Dean’s side of the conversations with him, but she already knows she trusts him more than she trusts John Winchester and his obsession with demons. And then John runs hand through his hair and says _what did he say_ , and Dean looks even more shocked than she feels.  
  
“Uh,” he says, and she steps in, because she knows this, all of this, Sam’s notes for what little sense she can make of them and her own, constructed from books and journals and what Bobby says.   
  
“They can’t make themselves look like someone else,” she says, and John’s attention turns to her, tingling against her skin like always, but she’s never backed down from it and she’s not going to start now. “They possess people, it’s how they work. It doesn’t--” she falters a little, because John’s gaze is getting more and more intense, and she knows this isn’t what he wants to hear, but God, someone’s got to say it, because they need to help Sam and running off on wild goose chases is no use to any of them. “It doesn’t fit,” she finishes, raising her chin.   
  
Dean’s started pacing again, and she’s beginning to feel like it’s not just John, like everything about this night, everything about this _life_ is pressing in on her, like the air’s getting thicker until it’s hard to breathe, hard to think, and Dean doesn’t stop moving, not for an instant.   
  
“Then it possessed someone who looks like Dean,” John says. “It wouldn’t take much to confuse Sam right now.”  
  
She snorts, actually snorts out loud at that, because OK, Sam’s _confused_ , but this is _Dean_ , even if she hadn’t seen it for herself. “It was him,” she says. “It looked just like him.”   
  
Dean’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, staring at her. “What did it say?” he asks, and she realises she hasn’t given her account yet, that in all the craziness of making sure Sam was OK and then the outburst of ( _telekinesis_ ) whatever that was, they haven’t even asked her. She looks away, because Dean’s looking like a ghost, face all sharp angles and she couldn’t swear to it but she thinks he’s thinner than he was when they met, and she doesn’t want to see that _look_ in his eyes.  
  
“You came in and, uh.” She tries to remember, but the conversation wasn’t anything special, didn’t seem important at the time, and she wonders how many more times in her life she’s going to be asked to remember something this way ( _This guy I know needs help. I’ll be back soon_ ). “I think you asked me if there was anything good on TV and then you-- it,” she corrects hastily, looking up to see the way Dean’s lips are twisting, “it said it needed to talk to Sam alone. So I, uh.” _I left him. I left him alone._  
  
“Did you get a good look at it?” John asks, and he’s still chasing after the demon angle, he maybe a mystery most of the time but right now she can read him like a fucking book.  
  
“It was Dean,” she says, because she doesn’t know any other way to say it without John thinking that he’s right. She flicks her eyes up apologetically. “It was – there was no difference.”  
  
Dean stares at her for just long enough that she thinks something’s wrong, something’s fucked up ( _something’s_ more _fucked up_ ), and then he starts for the door, and he’s moving fast but he’s not moving like _Dean_ , he’s clumsy, slamming into a chair on the way, and that’s enough delay for John to get there before him, to bring him up short with a palm on his chest.  
  
“Dad,” says Dean, and there it is, she realises she’s been waiting for it ever since that night outside the asylum, every time Dean shut down when she asked Sam what happened in Palo Alto, every time he acted like he didn’t even _know_ that there was something out there wearing his face ( _hurting his brother_ ), and the moment’s here now, it’s here and she has no idea what to do.  
  
“It’s OK,” says John, but Dean’s shaking his head.  
  
“Let me go,” he says. “I shouldn’t be here.” His voice is low and rough, like glass crunching underfoot.  
  
“Your brother needs you,” says John, unyielding, and Dean leans into his palm, and he’s _shaking_.  
  
“Fuck,” he says. “Jesus, Dad.”  
  
And then John’s got an arm round his shoulders, has somehow turned him round and is leading him to the bed, not Dean’s bed, _Sam’s_ bed, pushing him down onto the side closest to the door. Dean looks up at John like he doesn’t know what to do, like he doesn’t even know what’s going _on_ , and John kneels and takes his son’s shoes off, lifting his feet up onto the bed. Dean lies down, but he’s still got that _look_ on his face, _tell me what to do, what do I_ do _?_.  
  
“I need you to watch out for Sammy, OK?” John says, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him. “Can you do that for me, Dean?”  
  
Dean just stares for a moment longer, then he nods. By the time John’s finished getting his jacket off, Dean’s stretched out on his stomach with an arm flung over Sam’s side, asleep.  
  
John straightens from the bed and catches her eye, and she wonders what Dean sees in the man that he can be so completely reassured. She wishes she could see it too, that she had someone who could just make it feel like everything was going to be all right; but her own parents are half a country and a million mental miles away, and she’s long past the point where she believes in happy endings.  
  
John sighs. “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he says. “We all need some rest right now.”  
  
That night, she sleeps in Dean’s bed, her hand on the hilt of the knife he keeps under his pillow; John sleeps on the floor, stretched out in front of the door.  
  
\----  
  
They do talk about it in the morning, and the next morning, and the next; Dean wants to run, to get away from whatever threat the thing poses, but John wants to stay and research and pin the thing down, and he’s John Winchester so he gets his way (nobody asks her what she wants). Dean calls Bobby again, and they check the papers obsessively for signs and portents, but there’s nothing, there’s _nothing_.  
  
At first, Dean refuses to be left alone with Sam, but there’s no way they can keep to that, it’s impractical; they institute a system of code words and intimate questions, and back it up with salt, holy water, iron and silver, until the process gets so involved that it would be laughable, it _is_ laughable, except for how something that wasn’t Dean once made Sam lose his mind and might come back for more. It’s just Dean to start with, every time he comes back from anywhere he drinks the holy water and recites the correct information and proves himself, but after the first day she insists that they all do it, not because she thinks it might show up pretending to be her or John, but because she sees the way Dean’s face is tight around the eyes every time he goes through it, and she remembers how lost he looked that night. John protests at first, but if there’s one thing she’s learned over the past nine months with John Winchester ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and seventy-two days_ ) it’s how to pick her battles, and by the end of the second day, he’s crossing salt lines and saying the Lord’s prayer as well. It’s hugely complicated, and by day four all of their fingertips are criss-crossed with tiny nicks from iron and silver blades and they’ve needed to find some bigger containers for holy water, but Dean’s shoulders relax a little, and she realises that _Winchester_ means more to her these days than just _Sam_.  
  
They can’t figure out what the thing was ( _demon_ , John says, like he doesn’t hear any of their counter-arguments), and they can’t figure out if it did anything to Sam. When she asks him about that night (because Dean refuses and John is never the best person to ask anyone anything), his answers are vague and contradictory. He doesn’t seem any crazier than he did before, but he is more agitated, pacing up and down for hours on end mumbling to himself. Before, he used to sleep a lot during the day; now, he sleeps only at night, and sometimes even then she wakes up to find him pacing and Dean watching silently from the bed ( _because they all sleep in the same room now, and the further loss of privacy doesn’t bother her at all if she can know that Sam is safe_ ). He starts to look paler and more hollowed-out, but one day she catches her own face in the mirror and thinks that maybe that’s just par for the course. This isn’t easy on Sam; this isn’t easy on any of them.  
  
It’s a week since the incident, and research is going nowhere, and John and Dean are arguing again about whether to stay or move on (except they’re not really _arguing_ , because that would imply that Dean ever used a tone that wasn’t entirely respectful), when Sam suddenly stops pacing. She can tell even without looking, the ever-present soft _swish_ of his sneakers on the carpet pausing, making the room seem too silent, too large. She turns to look at him, and he’s chewing on a thumbnail.  
  
“Sam?” says Dean, and they’re all looking now, and Sam seems to shrink slightly under their eyes, looking at the floor, right hand flexing.  
  
“Ch-” he says, then seems to come to some kind of decision. “Chicago.”   
  
Dean gets up and crosses the room, ghosts a hand over Sam’s shoulder. “You have a vision?”  
  
Sam’s shoulders hunch, and he lifts his head but doesn’t meet Dean’s eye. “We gotta. We gotta go to Chicago, Dean, OK? There’s--” He clamps his jaw down suddenly and his eyes flick to his father, then back to the floor.   
  
“OK,” says Dean. “OK, then that’s where we’ll go.”  
  
\----  
  
Joliet was only forty miles south-west of Chicago, and it took them less than an hour to make it, and hardly more time than that to figure out what it was that Sam wanted them to look at. Dad bought a local paper, which was a bust, but when Dean searched the archive online, there was a report of a murdered girl who was found in pieces in a locked apartment, and that _definitely_ sounded like their kind of gig. He turned the laptop to face Sam, who was sitting still for once but still goddamn jittery.  
  
“This it?” he asked, and it felt kinda weird to ask because usually Sam would take them straight to where they were needed and pretty much tell them what to do (well, kinda, though sometimes it took a little interpretation), but this time all he would say was _Chicago_.  
  
Sam glanced at the screen, then nodded once and looked away, jaw tight. Oh yeah, something was definitely fucked up here.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, because murdered girl or no, this whole job was beginning to make him feel antsy. “You sure, Sam? This the girl you saw in your vision?”  
  
“We should,” said Sam, standing up so quickly his chair teetered and crashed to the ground. He stopped, looking round the motel room. “Where’s Dad?”  
  
“He went to get food,” Dean said. “This the girl or not?”  
  
“Are we even sure he had a vision?” Jessica said, and Dean had almost forgotten she was there, God, sometimes she was quieter than Dad.   
  
“Why else would he bring us here?” Dean asked. “And if you say _because he’s crazy_ , I swear to God--”  
  
Jessica looked kinda hurt, which was fair enough, because it wasn’t like that was the kind of thing she _would_ say. Dean knew he wasn’t being fair, but Jesus, she left Sam alone with ( _she thought it was me_ ) some fucking supernatural _thing_ and--  
  
“I’m just--” Jessica pushed her hair back from her face, didn’t look away. “We would have seen it, that’s all.”  
  
And yeah, OK, there was a point there, because as far as they knew Sam didn’t have visions without the accompanying head-clutching and groaning and irritating ( _oh God, Sam_ ) falling all over the place, but then, _as far as they knew_ really wasn’t too far at all these days, and Christ, there was a lot more funky shit going on in Sam’s brain than just visions. God. And all the same...  
  
“Sam?” Dean asked. Sam had started pacing again, and it set Dean’s teeth on edge, always with the goddamn _pacing_ ( _something happened, that thing did something to Sam and it looked like you_ ). “Jesus,” he said, getting up and standing in Sam’s path, “would you just _stop_? Just _stop_ , Sam, Christ.”  
  
Sam paused, not looking at him, eyes on something in the corner of the room, chewing his nails again and it wasn’t like there was much of them left to chew. “I didn’t say that,” he said.  
  
“Didn’t say what?” Sam didn’t answer, and Dean couldn’t take much more of this, he _couldn’t_ , Sam was _fucked_ and he was getting worse ( _and it looked like me, Sam thinks it was me_ ) and there was just no end in sight, it wasn’t a demon and it wasn’t a shape-shifter and _Jesus_. “Didn’t say what, Sammy?” he said again. “What the fuck didn’t you say?”  
  
Sam still wasn’t looking, and Dean grabbed him by the chin and turned his face, but Sam’s eyes flicked away. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” said Dean, “would you just look at me?” ( _Look at me, see me, it wasn’t me_ ).  
  
“Hey.” Jessica again, and she was on her feet now, moving towards them. “Don’t talk to him like that.”  
  
Dean turned towards her, and God, hadn’t she done enough, why the fuck was she even _there_ , maybe if she wasn’t there Sam would be, maybe--  
  
And then Sam’s hand was on his face, Sam was looking at him, and Dean was under no illusions that Sam was seeing anyone other than him this time. “Don’t you say that,” Sam said, voice low, and Dean suddenly remembered what an intimidating fucker Sam could be. “Don’t you _ever_ say that, Dean.”  
  
Dean stared. “I didn’t say anything,” he started, but Sam was ignoring him, letting him go, looking at the laptop.  
  
“Her,” he said, and it was like he’d shrunk, suddenly fragile. “She’s the one.”  
  
Dean didn’t know what had just happened. But that was pretty much normal these days.  
  
\----  
  
The bar was smoky, the air thick with noise and music; just the kind of bar Dean really liked – really _used_ to like. It wasn’t that he’d stopped going to bars – they still needed to make money, after all, and OK, Dad was an awesome poker player but he was intimidating, it was harder for him to get a game than Dean – just that. It wasn’t the same.   
  
“You know Meredith?” he asked the bartender, and she grinned at him, licked her lips. And yeah, he could go for that, she was pretty hot and seemed willing, except that.  
  
Yeah, except _that_.  
  
“Meredith?” said a voice behind him, and he turned and looked down, finding himself staring at a pretty blonde chick with a weird haircut. “You a cop?”  
  
OK, weird, because the bar was loud, and he;d been talking pretty quiet. And all the same, giving up a lead was pretty dumb, so.  
  
“Nah,” he said. “Journalist. So how’d you know Meredith?”  
  
\----  
  
“There’s just something off about her,” says Dean as he reaches the car, and she slides out, wanting to hear what he has to say, because she hates not knowing what’s going on in a case, and yeah, it made sense for one of them to stay in the car with Sam and she volunteered ( _she needs to know Sam is safe_ ), but now they’re done she wants to _know_.  
  
“She was just a girl. Probably wanted to get into your pants,” says John, and there’s that edge of disapproval that makes Dean pull into himself.   
  
“What’s going on?” she asks.  
  
“Talked to a girl, Meg something,” says Dean. “I think it’s a lead.”  
  
John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says. You wait here, follow her when she gets out. I’ll take Sam and Jessica back to the motel and--”  
  
“We’re leaving,” says Sam, and she hadn’t even noticed him get out of the car, and from the looks of things no-one else had, either.  
  
“Yeah, Sam,” says Dean. “I’m just gonna stay here a little while and check things out, OK?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, rapid, nervous. “No, no, got to. I didn’t – I was wrong. Dean, got to leave, OK? There’s, she’s not.” He shifts his focus, looking at his father across the car, fingertips drumming on the roof. “Dad, Dad? It’s not safe. Not safe, I shouldn’t have--”  
  
She starts moving around the car towards him, because he’s been agitated for a week, but he’s been quieter, too, and it’s been a while since he’s had an outburst like this one. Dean gets there first ( _Dean always gets there first_ ).   
  
“Hey, hey,” he says, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, huh? You have another vision?”  
  
Sam shakes his head again, and he’s mumbling too low for them to hear, but the tone of his voice is clear enough, like he’s having an argument with somebody ( _with nobody_ ). “Got to,” he says finally. “Got to leave, go to--” he seems to grope for a minute, then says “Massachusetts” with the air of someone who’s solved a problem.  
  
Dean glances at her, and then at his father. “You said we had to come here,” he points out, all reason ( _and is this what that thing did to Sam, make his visions go haywire, make him think he constantly needs to be somewhere else?_ ).  
  
“Wrong, all wrong,” says Sam, pleading now, fingers locked around Dean’s arm. “It’s – there’s nothing here, just a, a person or, I don’t, we need to go.” His eyes to the door of the bar, and then he’s pushing at Dean, trying to get him into the car. “Dean, we’ve got to go,” he says.  
  
“Jesus, OK, OK,” says Dean, casts a helpless glance at his father. John just raises an eyebrow and goes to start the truck.   
  
\----  
  
It’s not really a surprise that there’s no reasoning with Sam, and the argument that erupts between him and John is nothing she hasn’t seen before either, but that doesn’t make it any easier, doesn’t make any of it make sense. Sam’s desperate for them to leave Chicago, but John wants to stay and figure out the murder, and it’s not until Sam has an actual definite vision in front of them and demands that they go to Massachusetts that he’s willing to let any of them leave at all. Even then, he says he’s going to stay behind, and that has Sam screaming at him and John screaming back, toe to toe, and God, she can’t even reconcile this Sam with his chin thrust out and the veins popping in his forehead with her Sam, her _Sam_ , but she knows enough by now to know that this is one side of Sam she can’t blame on whatever it is that has gone wrong in his mind.  
  
It’s three hours before the fight’s over, and only then because Dean stepped in when it looked like one or other of them was going to throw a punch. An hour later, they’re heading east out of Chicago, and none of it makes any sense.  
  
What really doesn’t make sense, though, is when there’s nothing in Massachusetts to be seen. Sam points them to a tiny town, but there’s nothing there, nothing even nearby, and Sam can’t or won’t tell them just what it is he saw in his vision. John’s ready to explode, she can tell by the way he’s stopped talking _at all_ , the way he seems even larger than usual, dark and thrumming in the corner of the room; Sam’s freaked and making even less sense than usual, arguing over the smallest things and apologising for things he hasn’t done; Dean’s looking more stretched and worn every day, and they’re not even researching what happened to Sam any more, every time she even thinks of doing it she feels like her shoulders are going to break with the weight of it all, and she can’t do it by herself, she _can’t_ , but right now there’s no-one who can help her, they’re all lost and drifting further apart by the day.  
  
They’ve been in Massachusetts two days when John and Dean go out to investigate a report of wild dog attacks in the next town. An hour later, there’s a hammering on the door, and she opens it to find Dean on the doorstep, barely standing, face pale and streaked with blood. He stumbles over the salt line and collapses on his knees. “Shut the door,” he says, hoarse but urgent, and she slams it and drops to his side.  
  
“What happened?” she asks, and some of the blood is coming from his arm, but she thinks there’s more coming from somewhere else, and she can’t _see_. The shower’s stopped running, and she knows Sam must have heard the commotion.  
  
“The girl – from Chicago,” Dean gasps. “She’s. I don’t even know what she is.”  
  
“Jesus,” she says, and then Sam’s kneeling on the other side of Dean, hands on him. Dean looks up, and Sam’s lifting him, guiding him to the bed.  
  
“Gonna be OK,” Sam says.  
  
“Shut up, Sam, I’m not a freakin girl,” Dean says, and then they’re doing it, that dance of theirs, and she wonders how even though Sam’s lost so much else, he’s managed to retain this, manages to remember how to move around his brother like they’re a single entity. She wonders if she and Sam would ever have had that, if things had been different.  
  
“You gotta help Dad,” says Dean. “Car’s fucked up. It’s five miles, his leg’s busted, I couldn’t carry him.”  
  
“Right,” she says, “right,” but there’s something else, and she doesn’t want to, but she can’t--  
  
“God,” says Dean as she hands him the holy water. “Yeah, OK, Christ.” Sam is peeling his shirt off, and he knocks back the water, grabs the iron knife and the silver one, practised movements now, blood welling up as if there wasn’t enough already. “Good job,” he says, grunting as Sam probes the gash on his bicep. “Almost forgot. Jesus, Sam, poke a little harder, would ya?”  
  
“Thought you said you weren’t a girl,” Sam murmurs, and she thinks that maybe, maybe they can get back to normal, or to whatever it was that was passing for normal, anyway.  
  
The truck’s in the lot, and she takes it and drives five miles to where Dean told her the car would be, but it’s not there. She drives around, thinking maybe Dean forgot, he wasn’t in great shape, maybe, maybe – but there’s no sign of John or the car, and she didn’t meet this girl, this _Meg_ , but she’s starting to think maybe Sam’s outburst in Chicago had less to do with Massachusetts and more to do with _her_.  
  
She calls Dean and he sounds rough. “Fuck,” he says. “Get back here.”  
  
Dean’s half passed-out when she gets back, and he tries to get up, but Sam pushes him down. “There was nothing,” she says, feeling like somehow it’s her fault, the second major fuck up in two weeks, and if they’ve lost John, if they’ve _lost_ him Dean is never going to forgive her ( _Sam is never going to forgive her_ ).  
  
“We’ll – Christ, Sam, I can manage, OK?” Dean says, but Sam’s face is pulling up angry, he’s not backing down.  
  
“God, Dean,” he says. “You can’t even – there’s blood and you said I could save them. You _said_.”  
  
Dean flashes Sam a look ( _a warning?_ ). “You make no fucking sense, you know that?” he says.  
  
That’s when the door opens and Dean walks in.


	16. Chapter 16

_He looks fine_ , is the first thing she thinks, and that doesn't make sense, that doesn't make any _sense_ , because Dean's _there_ , he's lying on the bed and he's got blood on his face and he's not fine, he's _not fine_ , and then Dean's standing in the doorway and he's _fine_. That's what she thinks, in that moment that lasts a year and an hour and no time at all, before Dean – the Dean in the doorway – pulls his gun and Sam stands in front of it.  
  
“Get out of the fucking way, Sammy,” says the Dean in the doorway, and Sam's twitching, nervous, but he doesn't move.  
  
“You can't,” he says, then glances back over his shoulder at the Dean on the bed, who's shifting, sitting up, his face unreadable. “You can't see him,” he says, looking back at the Dean in the doorway. “How can you shoot him if you can't see him?”  
  
“Sam, don’t make me come over there,” says Dean, and it sounds stupid, ridiculous, like Dean’s talking to a five year old, but he’s not, God, he’s not, he’s talking to Sam, he’s trying to make Sam get out of the way so he can shoot-- _Jesus_.  
  
“I’m not, I’m, I’m,” Sam looks from one Dean to the other again, hunches his shoulders. “I don’t understand,” he mutters, and maybe Sam’s the least sane person in the room ( _maybe_ ), but that’s the only thing that’s made sense to her since Dean -- the second Dean -- walked in.  
  
“Which one of you is Dean?” she asks, and they both look at her, both Deans, Sam still switching his gaze from one to the other, and she’s not expecting a truthful answer, of course not, but the Dean in the doorway’s face tightens, anger, disappointment, desperation, and he says _I am_ at the same time as the Dean on the bed -- the Dean that’s bleeding, the Dean that she left alone with Sam _oh God I did it again I left him alone with Sam_ says _that depends what you mean by Dean_.  
  
“Shit,” she says, taking a step back, because she thinks she’s figured it out, that’s not how Dean would be, and she left Sam alone _again_. “Sam, Sam honey,” she says, coaxing, wheedling, and she’s doing it too, now, talking to him like a child, but he’s standing right next to the not-Dean ( _she left him alone_ ) and fuck, this is so fucked up, “Sam, come here,” she says. “That’s not your brother, baby, come here.” If she can just get him to move so Dean can get a clear shot--  
  
The Dean on the bed -- _not Dean not Dean_ \-- shifts, sits up. He’s still favouring his arm, and the blood on his face looks real, but it’s not Dean, it can’t be Dean. “Sure,” he says, unconcerned ( _sounds like Dean_ ), “go ahead and shoot me. But I gotta say, it’s gonna inconvenience you a hell of a lot more than it’ll inconvenience me.”  
  
“Get the fuck away from my brother,” growls Dean, and Sam moves, steps so he’s more firmly between the gun and the not-Dean.   
  
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t.”  
  
“It’s OK, Sammy,” says the not-Dean, and she’s heard that tone so many times before, gentling, reassuring, _God_ , it sounds _just like him_ , “I’m gonna take care of this, OK?”  
  
“Shut up,” says Dean. “Don’t you fucking talk to him. Don’t you fucking _look_ at him.”  
  
“Look,” says the not-Dean, getting to his feet with a grimace, though still staying behind Sam, and spreading his arms, bravado and cockiness and _Dean_ , “I appreciate a good macho showdown as much as the next guy, but let’s cut to the chase here. You kill me, you’ve got, what? A corpse to get rid of, a traumatised little brother, and zip in the way of answers. Plus, it’d be a crying shame to waste someone as good-looking as me, right? Come on, Dean, I know you agree.”  
  
“Shut up,” says Dean again, and she wants to say it too, _shut up, shut up, stop sounding like him_ , but she stays quiet, she’s itching to just grab Sam and haul him out of there, but she needs to follow Dean’s lead on this one.  
  
“Yeah, you said that already, hot-shot,” says Dean. He glances at her, quirks an eyebrow. “Am I really this annoying? Seriously, I thought I had better material.”  
  
“What if he doesn’t kill you?” she asks, and she’s surprised to hear the words, but then she’s not surprised, this thing did something to Sam, this thing’s pretending to be Dean, but it might be the only thing that can fix this mess and she won’t give that up, not what she’s been looking for for so many months ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and eighty days_ ).  
  
Dean -- _not_ -Dean -- grins, the way he always does, the way that makes him look like a gleeful teenager. “Always knew Sammy’d fall for a chick with brains,” he says, then turns back to Dean. “I came here to give you answers,” he says. “All you gotta do is listen. And, you know, not shoot me. Deal?”  
  
“I’m not going to say this again,” says Dean. “Get. Away. From Sam.”  
  
Not-Dean rolls his eyes, gives an exaggerated sigh. “Dude, you’re about as much fun as a freakin frontal lobotomy.” Dean twitches, raises the gun slightly, and not-Dean raises his hands. “Fine. Fine! We’ll go outside, OK? You happy?”  
  
Dean pauses, long enough for her to think he’s really going to go through with it, blow the head off the only chance they’ve got. Then he squares his shoulders. “Fine,” he says.  
  
Not-Dean nods, starts to skirt around Sam, but Sam moves with him, doesn’t even look behind him, like he can sense exactly where not-Dean is. Not-Dean stops, quirks a tiny smile. “It’s OK, Sammy,” he says. “No-one’s getting shot here. I’m just going to have a little talk with Dean and Jessica, OK?” Sam doesn’t turn around, doesn’t speak, but his shoulders slump, and not-Dean slips around him, touching his shoulder as he passes, a move which makes a muscle in Dean’s jaw jump spastically.  
  
“Jessica,” says Dean, and it’s even weirder now, the two of them standing so close together, by the door, the only difference the blood on not-Dean’s face and the gun that Dean is holding, still cocked and ready, “you wait here with Sam, OK?”  
  
And there it is again, _wait here with Sam_ , she’s not one of them, maybe never will be, for all that they trust her with their most precious possession ( _and she left him alone_ ), but she’s not letting that happen, not this time, not now it may be the answers they’ve been looking for since she woke up and found her bed empty. “Fuck you, Dean,” she says, and both Deans look at her, one surprised, the other grinning.  
  
“Seriously,” says the not-Dean. “You gotta stop treating her like hired help, man. She’s smarter than two of you, _and_ she puts up with our crazy-ass family.”  
  
Dean looks like he’s about to lose it, but she’s not backing down, so she steps forward, pushing them out of the door. She glances back as she leaves, and sees Sam looking after them, frowning.  
  
\----  
  
“What the fuck,” says Dean, and then seems to run out of words, like he’s choking on his own rage. He doesn’t really need words to express how he’s feeling, though: the knife he has pressed to the not-Dean’s neck is doing the job pretty well by itself.  
  
Not-Dean makes a sort of strangled noise, though he’s still grinning, head pressed back against the concrete end wall of the motel, hands raised and arms pulled back, face pale and splotched with freckles and dried blood. Dean pushes closer, pressing against him like he’s trying to crush him against the wall, and makes a noise of his own, low and dangerous, a noise that makes her take a step back involuntarily. She can’t let herself be scared, though, not of Dean, and not of the not-Dean, either. This is too important; this could be the most important moment in her life.  
  
“Dean,” she says, careful to pitch her voice low and calming, because if that knife presses down any harder then they’ll be fucked, worse off even than before, “you’ve got to let him speak.”  
  
Dean doesn’t seem to have heard her, and she says his name again, using the tone she uses on Sam these days, soothing, gentling, _oh God please let Dean not be like Sam, I need him, I need his help_. Dean twitches, then pulls back slightly, though his arm is still pressed against the not-Dean’s throat, knife ready in his other hand, knuckles white on the handle.  
  
“What,” he says again, and looks like he can’t breathe. The not-Dean grins broader, wriggles his fingers.  
  
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, there, buddy,” he says, still sounding a little strangled, but not perturbed at all, God, he sounds _amused_ by this whole thing.  
  
“What are you?” she asks, because it’s obvious that Dean needs some time, that Dean’s an inch, one fucking inch from losing it, and she needs to make sure that doesn’t happen.  
  
The not-Dean turns his eyes to her, raises one eyebrow, but Dean opens his mouth first.  
  
“It’s a demon,” he says, voice all gravel and broken glass. “It’s a demon and it’s fucking dead. You hear me?” he says, pressing his arm a little harder into the not-Dean’s chest. “I’m gonna rip you apart, you son of a bitch.”  
  
The not-Dean raises the other eyebrow. “Dude,” he says, “they told me you weren’t as dumb as you look, but I’m seriously starting to wonder.”  
  
Dean’s jaw tightens even further, and she needs to distract him, _shit_ , this is bad, this is so, so, bad, and she can’t _think_ , so she says it again. “What are you?”  
  
The not-Dean’s face gives an amused little quirk. “Dean Winchester,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”  
  
“Shut up,” says Dean, and she steps forward now, pulling at his shoulder, because the knife’s coming up and round and Dean’s so angry he doesn’t even look like _Dean_ any more.  
  
“Don’t,” she says. “Dean, don’t kill him. We need him, Dean, please.”  
  
Dean stills, the knife a bare inch away from the not-Dean’s throat. “It’s a demon,” he grinds out and the not-Dean snorts.  
  
“Not even close, denial-boy,” he says. “Or, I guess, maybe close, you know, in terms of metaphysical orders of beings. But you’re looking in the basement when you should be in the attic, if you know what I’m saying.” He waggles his eyebrows, and she tightens her grip on Dean’s shoulder, staring at the not-Dean’s face and thinking as fast as she can, it’s like a riddle, it’s like a crossword clue, and she remembers lazy Sunday mornings with Sam and reading the paper and the section at the end with brain-teasers, she remembers, she knows how these games work, she _knows_.  
  
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” asks Dean, but the not-Dean is ignoring him, still holding her eyes.   
  
“Ask Jessica,” he says. “She’s figured it out. Smart chick. Totally out of Sammy’s league, though.” And another grin spreads over his face, and for a moment, he doesn’t look like Dean at all, doesn’t even look human, but the moment passes and it’s just Dean again, cocky, overconfident, a Dean she doesn’t really know.  
  
Dean’s back shifts in front of her. “Jessica?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the not-Dean.  
  
She can’t really bring herself to say it; it sounds so _ridiculous_. All the same... “An angel?” she says, and God, it sounds even worse out loud, but the not-Dean’s still grinning, nodding now, though only slightly, mindful of the knife still hovering near his jugular.  
  
“Give me a break,” snorts Dean, and not-Dean quirks an eyebrow.  
  
“What, you think there’s no balance to the force, young Skywalker?” Dean makes an incredulous noise, and not-Dean shrugs, only it’s not a shrug, he barely moves at all, but she’s seen it often enough ( _it’s not him it’s not Dean_ ) to know what it means. “I gotta admit,” not-Dean says, “it’s a dumb word, but hey, you guys really kinda suck with the whole mythology thing, you know that? All that crap in those books, freakin miracles and commandments and crap, God, you do know they were written by guys who were out of their heads on some serious good shit, right? I mean, have you ever even heard of ergotism?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” says Dean, but not-Dean just grins right on.  
  
“All I’m saying is,” he says, making that tiny movement again, “you don’t really have a name for what I am, but that one right there? That’s the closest. But no asking to see my goddamn wings, or I’ll kick your ass.”  
  
“You’re not an angel,” Dean says, but not-Dean’s not even looking at him, he’s looking at her.  
  
“Believe what you want,” he says. “See if I give a fuck.”  
  
She realises that her mouth is hanging open, because God, for the last nine months she’s known ( _she didn’t want to know_ ) that ghosts and demons and evil, real evil, exist in the world, but she’d never even thought about this, never thought about whether there might be real good, whether there might be...  
  
“Does God exist?” she hears herself say, and not-Dean’s face cracks into a delighted grin.  
  
“The guy with the white beard? All-knowing? Great sky-fairy kinda thing?” he asks, and then looks like he’s going to say something else, mouth opening and closing, but no sound comes out. “Shit,” he mutters, then frowns, the first frown she’s seen from him since Dean arrived.   
  
Dean takes that moment to press the knife right back up against the not-Dean’s ( _the angel’s_ ) throat. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you are,” he snarls. “What the fuck did you do to my brother?”  
  
The not-Dean’s frown is gone in an instant, and his eyebrows shoot up again. “Jeez, Dean, you never freakin learn, do you?” he says, and Dean presses closer again.  
  
“No more fucking games,” he says, and not-Dean sighs, rolls his eyes.  
  
“You know, sometimes I have no idea how you guys function at all,” he says. “You’re so fucking _dumb_. Look at this, the great Winchesters, scourge of the forces of evil.” He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle ( _Dean’s laugh_ ). “I gotta say, I’m pretty shocked you didn’t all bite it first time out the gate.”  
  
“Tell me what you did to Sam,” Dean says, slamming the not-Dean back against the wall for emphasis. The not-Dean winces, and she remembers that he’s hurt, injured, she saw the wounds herself, but God knows if they were real, she doesn’t know if anything’s real any more.  
  
“This is why he left, you know,” says the not-Dean, like he’s just making conversation. “Twenty-three years old and you still act like he doesn’t have a mind of his own. _Protect Sammy, watch out for Sammy_ , God, you’d think he was a freakin babe in arms the way you think about him.”  
  
Dean makes an incredulous noise. “You don’t know a damn thing about how I think about my brother,” he spits, and the not-Dean laughs.  
  
“Wait, you think this is just pretty packaging?” he gestures slightly at himself, movements still minimal, a bead of blood rolling down his neck from the knife blade. “Jesus. I know everything about you, Dean. I _am_ you. And I gotta say, it kinda sucks.”  
  
Dean pauses for a moment, tense, and she wonders, wonders how much of this is the truth, is the thing _really_ Dean? It looks like him, God, it _sounds_ like him, but--  
  
Her thought is cut short, Dean jerking back into action in front of her, slamming the not-Dean back against the wall to punctuate his speech. “Tell me. What. You did. To Sam.”  
  
“Jesus!” says the not-Dean, exasperated, then starts speaking like he’s explaining something to a small child ( _the way they talk to Sam_ ). “I didn’t do anything _to_ Sam. I gave him a choice, and he made it. I didn’t do anything he didn’t ask for.”  
  
“What?” says Dean, and she can’t see his face properly, but she can tell his lips are barely moving, knows he’s feeling the same confusion that’s creeping through her belly.  
  
“Sammy’s all grown-up now, Deano,” says the not-Dean. “Big enough to make his own decisions. I offered, he accepted.”  
  
Dean shakes himself, like he’s trying to remind himself where he is, slams the not-Dean against the wall again. “He thought you were me,” he says, and she’s still not sure what exactly it is they’re talking about, she doesn’t think Dean is either, but he doesn’t seem to care about that right now.  
  
“Fraid not,” says the not-Dean, lips twitching upwards, and she’s beginning to hate that grin, she’s seen it more on this -- _thing’s_ face in the last twenty minutes that she has on Dean’s face _ever_ and she wants it gone ( _it was his choice_ ). “Yeah, OK, he’s a little screwed up on that issue right now, but back then? Before I gave him what he asked for? He knew what he was doing, Dean. Knew everything. Knew what would happen, too.” Not-Dean smirks. “Figured he just enjoys padded cells, you know?”  
  
“You bastard,” says Dean, low and calm, and she knows what’s coming next, grabs Dean’s elbow before the knife can press forward, because she hates this thing with Dean’s face, hates the way he talks about Sam like he doesn’t even matter ( _and it’s not Dean, she doesn’t need convincing of that any more_ ), but they still need him, they need to know everything they can.  
  
“What choice?” she says, feeling Dean’s muscles bunched under her fingers, ready to strike. “What did you do?”  
  
“Always with the smart questions,” says not-Dean. “I told him what would happen, if he went back to his cosy little bed and his cosy little life. Told him I could give him a way to stop it from happening. Told him it would fuck him up. He said yeah. Smart boy, our Sammy.”  
  
She feels Dean straining, tightens her grip until her fingers are biting into his skin. “What did you do?” she asks again.  
  
Not-Dean shrugs, a proper shrug this time, ostentatiously nonchalant. “Flipped a couple switches in his brain,” he says. “Nothing that wouldn’t have happened eventually anyway. Bending the rules, know what I’m saying?” he winks, and suddenly she gets a glimpse of that inhumanness again, behind the mask of _Dean_ , something that makes a shudder run up her spine.   
  
“He thinks you’re me,” says Dean, and he sounds like he hasn’t even heard what the not-Dean’s been saying, like he’s spinning off into the deep end, and she remembers the way he collapsed the first night she left Sam alone with the not-Dean, the way he’s been looking for months, ever since they figured out that something that looked like him was behind all this, the unravelling edges, the way the skin around his eyes always look too tight.   
  
Not-Dean shrugs again. “I do a good imitation,” he says, and suddenly Dean’s got a broad hand on his face, fingers pressing into the skin of his cheeks, his temples.  
  
“We’re going back in there,” he snarls, “and he’ll see that you’re not me. He’ll fucking _see_ it.”  
  
Not-Dean starts laughing again then, and Dean lifts the knife till it’s hovering near not-Dean’s eye, she’s still got her hand on his arm, but she’s not sure she’s going to be able to stop him.  
  
“Seriously,” not-Dean gasps, “I have _no idea_ how you get by. You’ve been with him all this time and you haven’t figured it out yet?”  
  
She feels Dean hesitate under her hand, and she pulls back a little harder, hoping she can get through. “Figured what out?” she asks, and the words sound oddly distant, everything’s just so screwed up.  
  
“Sam sees two of you all the time,” says the not-Dean, addressing Dean still, though his eyes shift to her. “Every fucking day. Hey, that’d be enough to make anyone a little loopy, right? You know what they say about too much of a good thing.” The knife moves a little closer to the not-Dean’s eye, and the not-Dean rolls his eyes a little. “Jeez, drama queen, much? Listen, moron, you march me back in there, think Sam’s gonna take that as proof I’m not who I say I am? You’re talking about a kid who talks to imaginary people in his head, here.”  
  
“What do you mean, he sees two of me?” Dean asks, and she can’t help but think Dean isn’t asking the right questions, the obvious questions.   
  
Not-Dean sighs. “Look, like I said, I have no idea about how these brains of yours function, seriously. No,” he says, as Dean makes to lunge forward, “just fucking listen, for Christ’s sake. I flipped the switches in Sammy’s head, just like he _asked_ me to, but it had some... unforeseen side-effects.”  
  
“What?” she breathes, though she’s not sure she wants to know, she thinks maybe she’s seen enough of the twistedness in Sam’s head to last more than a lifetime.  
  
Not-Dean tilts his head slightly, or tries to, but Dean’s hand is still pushing against his face, and the best he can manage is a slight twitch. “I wanted him to see the future,” he says, “and that worked OK, I showed him what would happen if he went back. But after, it was like --” he pauses a second, like he’s trying to think of words, “like he could see it all the time, you know? Like he sees what’s actually going on and what would have happened at the same time. Not to mention those visions.” Another twitch, a glance at her. “I’m amazed he’s not more fucked up than he is.”  
  
Dean swallows, so hard that she hears it, then lets up his grip on the not-Dean’s face, just long enough for him to pull forward slightly, before smacking him back into the wall.  
  
“Ow, Jesus,” says not-Dean.  
  
“Fix it,” says Dean, and he’s so still now it looks unnatural, this is how John is, not Dean, Dean is always moving, always looking for the next task to complete. “Put him back the way he was, now.”  
  
“For fuck’s...” says the not-Dean, and then rolls his eyes again, and she wonders if maybe he can’t be killed, if maybe that’s why he’s baiting Dean so much. “Even if I could flip those switches back, which I can’t, by the way, Sam’s not gonna go back to Mr. Stanford Law School, OK? You think these brains of yours were meant to deal with living in two realities at once? There’s more broken in there these days than I can do anything about. Oh, Christ, we’re doing this again, are we?” he adds as Dean starts to smack his head against the wall repeatedly.  
  
“Dean,” she says, even though her fingers are going numb, now, she’s clutching his arm so hard. “Dean!” They’re not done yet. They’re so far from done.  
  
“Why are you telling us this?” she asks, because for all he says he’s an angel, she’s seen no sign of goodness yet, seen nothing in him that indicates any kind of compassion towards any of them, including Sam. She thinks about what she’s pieced together about what Sam saw, how she thinks maybe he had a vision of her death. “Were you trying to save my life?”  
  
Dean’s stopped beating the not-Dean now, and his hand’s still pressing the not-Dean’s head into the wall, but his shoulders are slumped, like he’s given up. The not-Dean laughs, still sounding amused even though there are blood-stains on the wall behind his head.  
  
“Jesus, you guys have _got_ to start thinking outside the box,” he says. “Seriously, you think I’d go to all this trouble just to save you, sweetheart? Why you, and not the three hundred Indonesians that died in an earthquake last week? Or the woman whose boyfriend is killing her across town right now? What, because I’m some merciful being that rewards the pure at heart? Give me a freakin break.”  
  
She feels blood rise to her cheeks, and she doesn’t want to blush in front of this _thing_ , but the mocking gaze feels like it’s sand scrubbing against her skin. “Then why?” she says, trying to sound strong, sure of herself.  
  
“Because you’re fucking it up, is why,” says the not-Dean. “You _people_ have had your precious Sammy back for _months_ , and you’re just making it worse. I couldn’t give a crap about all your neuroses and your freakin melodrama, just stop drowning in angst for five seconds and do something useful, would you?”  
  
He sounds agitated for the first time, something like a real emotion playing across his face, and she hesitates, but Dean doesn’t say anything, she’s not even sure he’s listening, not sure he’s in there any more, so she pushes on. “Why did you do what you did if you didn’t want him to be...” She’s not going to say crazy, even though she’s said it in her head a hundred times, this creature in front of her doesn’t get to hear that.  
  
The not-Dean grins again, but the illusion’s cracked, she can see the upset beneath it. “There’s crazy and there’s crazy, darling. You should have seen what he would have been like if things had played out the way they’re supposed to.”  
  
“And why do you care what he’s like at all?” she asks, and the not-Dean huffs out a breath.  
  
“Because I’m such a nice guy?” he says, and she presses her fingers into Dean’s arm, but Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, like he can’t hear their conversation, and she wishes she wasn’t behind him, wishes she could see his face.  
  
“Why won’t you--” she has to pause for a moment, because the enormity of the situation is hitting suddenly and it’s making her throat close up with horror, “just, just give me a straight answer. Please,” she says, even though she knows already that he doesn’t care, he just _said_ he didn’t give a crap, Christ.  
  
Not-Dean looks annoyed. “Love to, sweetheart, but there’s rules about this shit,” he says. “Can’t go around running my mouth about the future and the Grand Plan to you little guys down here, Christ knows why, seeing as how it’s you that’ll--” he stops again, mouth gaping open for a moment like he’s still trying to speak, before he snaps it shut with a grimace. “Let’s just say, we-- I didn’t really bargain on Sam being this much of a nutjob, and it’s causing me a couple of problems.”  
  
“But you told Sam,” she points out. “You told him what would happen in the future.”  
  
“Yeah,” says the not-Dean, still looking annoyed, and she’s starting to think it’s not her he’s pissed at.  
  
“Why him and not us?” she asks, and the not-Dean regains his composure and that _fucking_ smirk.  
  
“Maybe Sammy’s something less than human?” he says.  
  
Dean’s arm moves so sharply, so suddenly that her fingers slip, she’d loosened them a little because it seemed like he was just shut down, and now she’s lost her grip entirely, leaving scratches in Dean’s skin, and the not-Dean is doubled over suddenly, making a weird choking noise, and Dean’s hand _the hand holding the knife oh Christ_ is up by the not-Dean’s belly, blood running down his arm where the marks of her fingers are starting to blossom.  
  
“Shit,” she says. “Shit, Dean.”  
  
But Dean’s not listening. He twists his arm, and there’s a sickening tearing crunch from the not-Dean, from _inside the not-Dean_ , and then he pushes the not-Dean back sharply, pulling the knife out, the blade drenched in blood that gleams darkly in the orange light of the streetlamps. The not-Dean drops to the ground, but Dean doesn’t even look, just turns and strides back to the motel room, and this is fucked, this is _fucked_ up, there’s a body on the ground in the parking lot, human or not, but she has no idea what Dean’s planning next and she can’t get rid of it by herself anyway, so she follows him, struggling to catch up even with her long legs.  
  
Dean bursts through the door of the room like an avenging angel ( _fucking_ angel), and Sam’s sitting on the bed, but he’s on his feet almost immediately, moving forward until Dean barrels across the room and slams into him, and now he’s got Sam up against the wall just like with the not-Dean outside, and he’s dropped the bloody knife on the floor but that doesn’t mean anything, Dean Winchester doesn’t need a knife to make sure that someone never sees the sun rise again.  
  
“Tell me it’s a lie,” says Dean, and Sam’s got his arms sticking out stiffly at a forty-five degree angle, the hand that’s not crippled palm out, and he’s shaking his head in confusion.  
  
“Dean,” he says, but Dean shakes him.  
  
“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Sammy,” he yells, his face right up in Sam’s now, and she sees spit fly from his mouth and land on Sam’s cheek. “How could you fucking do that to yourself? How could you fucking _choose_ this, huh?” He shakes Sam again. “What, running away to college wasn’t enough for you, you decided a nuthouse would be even better?”  
  
“Dean,” she says, and she’s scared, really scared now, because she’s never seen Dean so angry with Sam, never, but she’s not going to let him hurt Sam, they’re all confused and hurting right now and they don’t know the score, not really, it’s too soon, they haven’t figured it out yet ( _but she thinks they might be able to, they might, they might_ ).  
  
“Stay out of this,” Dean growls, but she’s spent the last nine months being determined not to be intimidated by Winchesters, and she’s not stopping now. She grabs his arm, and he pushes back, hard, catches her under the ribcage with his elbow, sharp enough to make her gasp.  
  
Then Sam’s yelling, something only vaguely coherent but she’s pretty sure she hears the words _don’t touch her_ , and both of them are on the floor, kicking and punching, it looks deadly serious but at the same time she can tell that neither of them are fighting their utmost, partly because she’s seen Dean fight before but mainly because neither of them have drawn blood yet (and she thinks if they were really trying to kill each other, one of them would be dead by now). She’s screaming too, though she suspects she doesn’t make any sense, and there’s nothing but noise for long enough that when Sam suddenly goes still and silent, it’s enough to make her ears ring.  
  
“Sam?” she says, risking a step forward because Dean’s stopped throwing punches now, sensing the change in his brother as quickly ( _more quickly_ ) as she did, and she’s terrified suddenly that Dean’s hurt him, that he hasn’t been restraining himself as much as she thinks he has. But then Sam’s head tilts like he’s listening to something, his eyes widen, and he whispers _Dad_ , and then he’s tearing himself out of Dean’s grip and stumbling towards the door, and she remembers that she has no idea where John is, she went out to look for him and he was gone, but it wasn’t Dean that told her where to look in the first place.  
  
Sam reaches the door first, but only just, and then they’re all out in the parking lot, the air damp with drizzle, and at the other end of the motel there’s a pool of orange light cast by a streetlamp, and there’s two figures in it, a body on the ground and another leaning over it, hunched and shaking. The body on the ground is dead, it’s obvious even from this distance.   
  
The body on the ground looks like Dean.  
  
“Dad,” mutters Sam, and takes off at a run. It’s only a few strides to cross the lot, but it’s enough for Sam to stretch out his lead, longer legs eating up the distance, enough that when she sees John raise his head, she isn’t close enough to make out the look on his face in the distorting orange light, but she’s close enough to see Sam’s reaction, to see him stagger back like he’s been punched.  
  
And then Dean’s there, dropping to his knees by his father’s side, heedless of the pool of blood that’s collected around the body that isn’t his. “Dad,” he says, “Dad, it’s OK, it’s me. I’m OK.”  
  
John pulls back and casts a glance at her, and she takes a step back, too, because she hasn’t seen John Winchester’s face look like that since St. Louis and the dead shapeshifter that looked like Sam, and she’s forgotten what a shock it is to be confronted with such naked despair on that face that’s normally as expressive as a lump of stone. He keeps his eyes trained on her, though, and she realises that he’s waiting for confirmation.  
  
“It’s him,” she says, he voice cracking. “The other one was...” She glances down at it, and it’s freakish, seeing Dean’s dead eyes staring up at her, and she’s not going to say _angel_. She shakes her head. “It wasn’t him,” she whispers.  
  
John blinks once, and then falls forward onto his son, arms wrapped around Dean, broad fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. She turns her face away, because this isn’t meant for her to see, not this, and she looks at Sam instead.  
  
Sam’s looking down at the dead body on the floor, the body that isn’t Dean, and he looks thoughtful.  
  
\----  
  
They burn the body five miles from the city limits, in a small grove of trees where the flickering of the fire won’t attract too much attention. John is silent, tight-lipped, giving orders with a flick of his head or hand; he keeps his eyes on Dean all the time, and in the jumping shadows flung by the flames he looks like a ghost.  
  
She hangs back with Sam, and there’s no words about that, either, but it’s clear that she’s been designated to look after him right now. Dean does most of the work, hauling the body, dousing it in gasoline and salt, and he doesn’t look at anyone, his hands crusting with dried blood, jaw clenched so hard that the muscles stand out even in the poor light. He hasn’t said anything since he explained where John was ( _stuck around to research the wild dog after Dean left, and somehow she didn’t realise that they’d only taken the Impala, she hadn’t questioned how the not-Dean had got there, hadn’t wondered about the truck in the parking lot,_ Christ), and she’s beginning to think maybe she’s gone deaf, except that the crackle and pop of the thing that looked like Dean is loud enough, the stink of burning flesh too familiar these days.  
  
She’s still thinking, God, how could she not be. She feels like she’s learned more in one conversation than she has for the whole of the last nine months, but she still hasn’t put it together, her mind flooded with new information. The thing that looks like Dean ( _the thing that used to look like Dean_ ) is – something like a demon, but not. She won’t use the word _angel_ , but she thinks, she thinks probably what it meant by that was that it was against the demons in some way ( _it can’t be anything more than that, she won’t believe that the counterpart to evil is that supreme indifference_ ), and that it needs Sam for some reason, needs him to be – less insane, she supposes, less broken than he would have been in whatever future it is that Sam sees all the time.  
  
“I’m not sure,” mutters Sam, and she looks at him, but he’s looking away.   
  
“Sam?” she asks, and he turns, but he’s not seeing her, she can tell when he is and right now, he’s looking at something else.  
  
“I’m not sure it was a good idea,” he says. “Maybe we should have waited. You’re--” he shakes his head suddenly, twitches, once, twice. “I think you’re doing it wrong,” he says, like he’s frightened of offending her (except it’s not _her_ he’s talking to). She bites her lip and wonders what could have happened in the alternate future that Sam would be more broken than this.  
  
\----  
  
When they get back to the motel, Dean grabs John’s arm as they’re crossing the parking lot, says _I gotta talk to you_ in a low voice. They hang back, and Sam glances over his shoulder once, but doesn’t wait for them. Inside, he slumps on the bed like he’s just run fifteen miles, rubbing his good hand over his face.  
  
“Hey,” she says, sitting next to him and putting a hand tentatively on his arm. “You OK, baby?”  
  
Sam glances at her, then past her at something else, frowns but doesn’t answer. _You’re just making it worse_ , that was what the not-Dean said. That and _Sam sees two of you all the time_ ( _Sam can’t be fixed_ ).  
  
“Hey,” she says again, pressing down a little harder on his arm. “Who’re you looking at?”  
  
Sam’s eyes slide to her face again, then away. He looks nervous, ashamed. “OK,” he says, “well we can’t do anything else tonight, I guess.”  
  
“Sam.” He’s ignoring her now, face and body turned steadfastly away, but she’s got to get through, she feels like she’s on the edge of understanding something, and she needs him to realise that she’s _real_. “Is Dean here, Sam? Do you see Dean here?”  
  
Sam blinks slowly, and then he nods once, still not looking at her, like he’s trying really hard to pretend he can’t see her. It hurts, but there’s no time for that, not now, not any more.  
  
“He’s not here,” she says. “That’s not really Dean. The real Dean is outside, with your dad. Sam,” she shakes his arm a little as he makes to try and pull away, “you’ve got to trust me on this one, OK? I’m real, and the Dean you’re talking to is just in your head.”  
  
He looks at her then, just for a moment, and she suddenly notices how drawn he looks in the sallow light of the motel room, like he’s being stretched too thin. There’s nothing in his expression but confusion and weariness ( _and fear_ ). “I just want to go to sleep,” he mutters, and she doesn’t know any more whether he’s talking to the imaginary Dean or her.  
  
The door swings open and John stalks through, followed closely by Dean. Sam’s head jerks round, and for a moment he looks totally hopeless, before his face settles back into vague puzzlement, and she realises, all this time she’s been thinking that Sam is the only Winchester who doesn’t maintain a mask, that ironically the thing that’s ripped him away from her is also the thing that’s allowed her to really _see_ him for the first time, but now she _realises_ , she’s underestimated him again, and she remembers the not-Dean’s voice, _this is why he left, you know_ , and wonders which time he was talking about.  
  
“Sam,” says John, commanding, and Sam is on his feet in a second, standing almost to attention, but avoiding looking at John. Dean hangs back, and he’s bouncing on his feet but she thinks that maybe he’s shaking, too.  
  
“In the future, before you changed it, do we all make it out alive?” asks John, and she’s startled, more than startled, because she’s asked, over and over, but never like this, never so direct, never so specific.  
  
Sam clenches his jaw, stares at the carpet. “Sam,” says John again, sharper this time, and Sam lifts his chin, stares at a point somewhere to the left of his father’s right ear.   
  
“No, sir,” he says.  
  
John nods, puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You did good, son,” he says.  
  
“What?” Dean’s suddenly moving forward, voice rising. “Dad, what the hell? Sam fucking--”  
  
John turns, and Dean suddenly takes a step back, stands to attention himself. “Don’t take that tone with me,” says John, and he’s speaking quietly, but it’s like his voice fills the room, like she doesn’t even hear it at all, just feels it rumbling through the floor and the walls. “I don’t like this any more than you, Dean. But I’ll take all of us alive and Sam – unwell over any of us dead any day of the week. Your brother made the right decision.”  
  
Dean’s mouth opens and closes like he seriously can’t believe what he’s hearing, and she’s reminded suddenly of the not-Dean, the way he would seize up suddenly whenever he got too close to something he couldn’t tell them. John holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear any more about it,” he says. “We need to clean up that blood.” And he leaves the room without another word.  
  
Dean’s left standing there for a moment, then his mouth snaps shut so hard it must have hurt, and he starts towards the door. Sam grabs his arm when he’s halfway there.  
  
“It was, Dean, it was my choice,” he says, half-defiant, half-apologetic.  
  
Dean shoots him a look, and she’s standing side-on to them so she only catches a little of it, but it’s enough to make her throat go dry.  
  
“Yeah?” he says, and he really is shaking now, tremors running along his shoulders. “Was it worth it?”  
  
The door slams before Sam has a chance to answer, and they’re alone.


	17. Chapter 17

They leave Massachusetts the same night. The not-Dean’s body has burned to dust and ash, nothing but a column of smoke and sparks twisting up into the night sky, but there’s still a dark stain on the asphalt of the parking lot, and who knows who might have seen something? John says _Vermont_ , and Dean grunts and heads for the car as if he has detailed and explicit instructions. She makes to follow him, but he peels out of the parking lot before either she or Sam is halfway to the car.  
  
John frowns slightly, then glances at her, jerking his head towards the truck, and she’s heading that way automatically ( _because apparently she takes orders these days_ ) when she realises that Sam hasn’t moved, that he’s standing staring after his brother’s car, and he’s stiller than she’s seen him for a long time. She turns back, then looks over her shoulder at John; his eyebrow twitches, and then he gives the minutest shrug, small enough that she would never even have noticed it if she hadn’t spent the last nine months taking a crash course in _John Winchester_ , and climbs into the cab, permission given, responsibility delegated. She feels annoyance bubble in her stomach, but she has other things to worry about right now.  
  
“Hey,” she says, moving closer to Sam, close enough to touch, though she doesn’t, not yet. “You OK, baby?”  
  
Sam doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on the spot where Dean’s tail-lights turned the corner and disappeared. He’s chewing his lip, but otherwise he’s utterly still, like he’s been startled out of all the nervous tics that she’s gotten so used to that she only really notices them now they’re gone. She remembers how much she was freaked out by Sam’s twitching and pacing when they first got him back, and thinks this stillness is almost as bad.  
  
“He’ll come around,” she says, and she does touch him now, reaches over and brushes her hand against his shoulder. “It’s just a shock, that’s all.” _For all of us. Sam did this. He did this for us._  
  
Sam blinks, then turns his head slowly to look at her, and she feels something inside her break a little at the expression on his face. “I... didn’t,” he says, then stops talking and just _stares_ after Dean, like somehow if he can concentrate hard enough he can fix everything that’s wrong.  
  
“I know,” she says, “I know you didn’t, baby, it’s OK. Everything’s going to be OK, I promise.” She doesn’t really know what he means, what he _didn’t_ do, but right now, all she wants is to take that look off his face, and if pretending ( _lying_ ) will do that, it’s a small price to pay. “Come on,” she says. “Your dad’s waiting.”  
  
Sam follows her to the truck, but he doesn’t look convinced.  
  
\----  
  
Dean doesn’t speak to Sam for five days after the not-Dean dies. He starts sleeping in the other bed   
(and she can’t be sorry for that, not when it means she gets to spend her nights curled beside Sam), he barely spends any time at the cabin they’re holed up in in the Green Mountains, inventing pretexts to get out of the place if he can’t find any legitimate ones, and when he is there, his mouth is drawn and tense and he looks like he’s hollow inside. She’d be worried about him, but she doesn’t have the time or energy, because she’s too busy worrying about Sam.  
  
Sam’s stopped talking. At first, she thinks he’s stopped talking altogether, and for all his constant muttering made cold fingers crawl up her spine, his silence is worse, she spends seven hours alone with him the first day in Vermont while Dean and John are off collecting supplies, and by the end of it she’s begging him to talk to her, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her presence. She wonders if maybe she’s not even there, if she’s a ghost or even never existed in the first place. For the amount of sense her life has made over the last nine months ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and eighty-one days_ ), it seems as likely an explanation as any.  
  
And then Dean and John come back, and they _see_ her, and Sam sees them, or at least, he sees _Dean_. That’s when she realises that Sam hasn’t stopped talking, he’s just stopped talking to anyone except Dean, and she’s relieved and exhausted and desperate, all tangled into one. It’s like when they found Sam all over again, except this time he’s shut her out completely, and she wants to slap him until he looks at her, because how can he do this to her _again_?  
  
Then, of course, there’s the issue that Dean is ignoring Sam, which means that Sam’s conversations with Dean are as one-sided as hers are with Sam, and the whole situation’s getting so ridiculous that sometime on the third day, she just starts laughing.   
  
Dean looks up from where he’s messing with his EMF meter and frowns. “What’s so funny?” he asks, and she realises he’s barely directed a word at her for three days, either.  
  
She shakes her head, but she can’t stop, convulsions rising from her stomach like bile, and it doesn’t feel good, it feels like hysteria, like insanity, but she can’t stop. She’s sitting in the middle of the cabin, and outside the July sun glints off the grime on the window, and Dean’s not talking to Sam and Sam’s not talking to her and John’s just fucking _sitting_ there researching like he hasn’t even noticed that anything’s wrong, and a year ago she was someone else, some _thing_ else, and maybe it would have been better if Sam’s first vision had come true after all.  
  
“Hey,” says Dean, putting down the meter now and coming over to her. “Hey, calm down. You OK?”  
  
“God,” she gasps out, then coughs, still laughing, and it hurts, now, her stomach muscles aching and her throat dry, and Dean’s frowning, looking around like he can find some kind of cure ( _bullet to the brain, that’ll do it_ ), and then Sam says _you see her_.  
  
Dean’s eyes flick over to where Sam is sitting on the bed, then he scowls and looks back at her. “Deep breaths,” he says, but the laughter’s already dissipating, because did Sam mean her, did he mean _her_?  
  
“Sam?” she hiccups, and turns to face him ( _look at me, Sam, God, please_ ).  
  
Sam looks away, and she wonders how the hell they came to this.  
  
\----  
  
She watches, after.   
  
_You’re making it worse_ , that’s what he said, the not-Dean. _You’re making it worse_ , and she _knows_ she was included in that _you_ , all of them were, her and Dean and John and maybe even Sam as well. The not-Dean wasn’t a demon, it’s clear enough from everything, from the way none of the usual repellents had any effect, from the way he died when Dean stabbed him. She tries to talk to Dean about it, but he turns away, like he always does, because he doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to see that they’re _making it worse_.  
  
She tries a couple of times after that, tries to get through to Sam, but she realises she doesn’t have enough information yet, doesn’t have the basic framework of knowledge that can help her make the right choices. So she stops trying, and she watches instead.  
  
Sam’s not well. It’s the first thing she notices when she starts looking, _really_ looking, and of course she’s known that for months, Sam hasn’t been _well_ since they found him, since he disappeared ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and ninety-two days_ ), but that’s different, that’s babbling and confusion and talking to people who aren’t there, and this, this is bruised eyes and shaking hands and skin that looks thin and brittle, like tissue paper, Sam is not _well_. It’s not until she looks around her that she realises why they haven’t noticed it before, because they’re all so focussed on Sam all the time, but when she looks, really looks, she realises that he doesn’t look that much worse than any of them, that Dean’s tan has faded until his freckles stand out sharp against his skin, that John’s shoulders are tight with constant tension, that her own face in the mirror looks years older than she thinks it ought to, the hair cut ragged-short around eyes that stare back at her like they don’t even recognise what they’re seeing. Sam’s not well, but none of them are.  
  
It’s not what she’s looking for, though, although it surprises and worries her; it’s not the information she needs. That takes longer to glean, takes days, weeks of watching, watching Sam, watching them all. She sees him talking to people who aren’t there, but she’s seen that before, it’s nothing new. Now, though, she realises that most of the time, Sam doesn’t talk at all, or if he does, it’s soundless, whispering or even just moving his mouth. She stops watching TV or reading or going for walks, all the things she used to do to try and pretend that maybe this wasn’t her life, and she sees now, she sees that Sam never does any of those things either. She spends hours just sitting silent and watching, and she sees that Sam’s doing that, too.  
  
She’s trying to figure out what’s going on with Sam; she wonders what it is Sam’s trying to figure out.   
  
After Vermont, they head south, Georgia, and they’re in a motel fifty miles from Savannah investigating reports of mysterious livestock deaths, when Sam says _it’s probably a chupacabra_ and John and Dean just keep talking like he’s not even there. She stares, not sure she really saw it, but there it is, and most of the time ( _maybe less of the time than she thought_ ) Sam doesn’t make any sense, but this time she _knows_ that he did, and they didn’t even notice, the only reason _she_ noticed was because she was watching.  
  
 _You’re making it worse_ , that’s what he said. And she’s beginning to figure out how.  
  
\----  
  
She gets left with Sam more often than not, now. It’s not like it wasn’t her job before, after all, she’s learned a lot but she’s still no hunter, she can shoot straight most of the time but she can’t hit a bullseye more than one time in ten, and although she’s stronger than she was, she’s no match for most of the things they go up against. So yes, she’s spent a lot of time babysitting Sam in the past, but these days it’s different, these days it’s her job even when they’re not hunting. Dean has hardly directed a word to Sam since the night they burned the not-Dean. And so it’s her job.  
  
Georgia’s sticky with heat, and the motel’s a/c leaves something to be desired. John and Dean are out hustling for cash, and Sam says _shut up, asshole_ , and she almost ignores him, _almost_ , because she’s half-asleep and it’s like there’s sweat hanging in the air and it wasn’t like this in California and she’s tired, so tired, turns out watching all the time is _hard work_.  
  
“Yeah, funny,” says Sam, and suddenly she’s awake, suddenly she thinks _this is it_ , she’s got what she needs now, she’s made her plans, it’s time to go.  
  
“What’s funny?” she asks, and Sam blinks, but doesn’t turn towards the sound of her voice. He looks disconcerted, just for a second, and she thinks that a month ago she wouldn’t even have seen it, but she’s got so used to analysing every tiny movement now that it’s like a flashing neon sign. _He heard me_. She realises it’s been months since any of them even questioned Sam’s outbursts, they’ve just been humouring him, treating him like he’s ( _insane_ ) a child.  
  
“Don’t use up all the towels this time,” Sam says, and it’s like he was planning to yell it, but doesn’t quite dare. He swallows, and she moves to sit across from him on the other bed.   
  
“I’m not taking a shower, Sam,” she says, trying to sound normal, _be normal, be normal_ , and Sam flicks a glance at her, not moving his head, just his eyes, and looks away. “Sam?” she says, and he ducks his head.  
  
“Bring it all down,” he says. “Don’t – don’t be – the fucking _door_ , it’s not safe.”  
  
She thinks about what he’s saying ( _doesn’t make sense_ ), thinks, and he trails off, eyes her from under his eyelashes and suddenly she _knows_. He’s faking. He’s fucking _faking_ it, and she wonders how many times he’s done that before, when he realised that talking nonsense was a way to get them to look the other way.  
  
“I’m not ignoring you,” she says. “I won’t, so don’t give me any more of that crap. We need to talk.”  
  
He draws a breath, but she grabs his chin, forces him to look at her, and even now his eyes try to slide away, but she won’t let him, she’s not going to let him take the easy way out, not this time. “I mean it, Sam,” she says, and she uses that tone she always used to when he got tight and pinched and being gentle with him wasn’t working any more. “Cut it out.”  
  
He blinks, looks fully at her for the first time. “Shut up,” he mutters. “Leave me alone.”  
  
“No,” she says. “I can’t do that.”  
  
“You’re--” Sam’s eyes dart nervously around the room, and he frowns. “Are you alive?” he asks, still in a low voice, like he’s trying to stop from being overheard. _Dean_ , she thinks. _He was talking to Dean_.  
  
“Yeah, baby,” she says, knows she can afford to be softer with him now she’s got him talking, though she’s ready to start with the orders again if she needs to. “I’m alive. I’m Jess, and I’m real.”  
  
He blinks a couple more times, looks sceptical; he doesn’t look away though.  
  
“Where’s Dean?” she asks.  
  
“Uh,” Sam clears his throat. “In the shower. In, in the shower.”  
  
She nods slowly, but she’s thinking fast. The imaginary Dean is in the shower, and the real Dean and John are out. It’s just them, and she wonders how often that happens, knows she needs to take this chance.  
  
“Sam, do you understand what’s happened to you?” she asks, and Sam’s mouth twitches upwards in a bitter smile.  
  
“I’m, uh.” He gestures at his head, and she’s still holding his chin in her hand, feeling the warmth of his skin. “I’m crazy.” He looks like he’s going to laugh, but then his face suddenly draws down, sober, wistful. “I’m crazy,” he says again, quieter this time, but it hurts more.  
  
“God,” she says, and for a moment she can’t think of anything else to say, here they are in this motel room where there’s cockroaches in the shower and grime on the windows, and she can feel Sam’s skin, she’s touching him like she used to sometimes when she just wanted to _look_ at him, just wanted to see his eyes, this man who filled in parts of her life she didn’t even know were missing, and he’s _crazy_.  
  
He blinks at her, eyes too bright like he can read the sombre train of her thoughts ( _and maybe he can, she still doesn’t know_ ), and then he starts to pull away, and that’s all it takes to get her back on track, because if regret for what they’ve lost is going to let Sam pull away, then it’s a luxury she can’t afford.  
  
“You’re seeing two timelines at once,” she says, gripping his face more firmly, and God, it sounds ridiculous, like something out of _Star Trek_ , but then _I hunt ghosts with my crazy psychic boyfriend and his fucked-up family_ doesn’t sound a whole lot better, so she figures she can deal. “Sam, do you remember when you saw Dean in Palo Alto? What he showed you?”  
  
Sam’s chewing at his bottom lip, and she remembers how many times they’ve had this conversation before, how Sam gets pale and incoherent, but before she was pushing for answers, and now she’s ready to give them, now she’s hoping she’s got something that will help Sam, not hurt him. “Do you remember seeing the future?” she asks.  
  
Sam frowns. “All the time,” he says. “The – I see, I see it all the time.”  
  
“But you changed it,” she says, and she lifts her other hand now, cups his face, because he saved her life, he did this to save her life, and because he’s _Sam_. “You changed the future. It’s different now.”  
  
Sam moves slightly under her hands, but there are still tears in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I can’t – I can’t tell, I don’t know.”  
  
“You did,” she says. “I’m alive, Sam. I know you see the other future, but it’s _not real_.”  
  
Sam looks away, his face unhappy. “I want, I want,” he starts, and then blinks furiously, scrubs his good hand across his eyes. “Jess--” She waits, feels a spark of hope. Then Sam’s shoulders straighten, and he shakes his head. “OK, well, no anchovies, OK?” he says, loud, and a second later he laughs. “Gross,” he says, and she feels the spark of hope slip away.  
  
\----  
  
They leave Georgia two days later, heading north, and Sam slips into the back seat of the car. She looks at Dean, but he just shrugs, ignores Sam ( _he’s always ignoring Sam these days_ ), and she thinks about getting in the back with him, but lately Dean’s been walking like there’s something pressing down on him, and she gets in the front, feels a tiny burst of gratification when the tension in Dean’s arms eases, just a little. She isn’t Sam, she can’t be Sam for Dean ( _no-one can be Sam for Dean, just like no-one can be Sam for her_ ), but she can be Jessica Moore, ot at least, she can try.  
  
“Thank Christ,” says Dean when they cross the state line, and she can’t help but agree, feels like some of the heat’s lifted just from that invisible boundary.  
  
“So, I think I might have a theory about what’s going on,” says Sam, and she sees the grooves at the corners of Dean’s mouth deepen, he hunches his shoulders and glares at the road like it’s done him personal injury.  
  
“What, Sam?” she says. “What is it?” and Sam shifts and frowns a little, looks carefully away.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “What, what if Mordechai is a tulpa?”  
  
Dean glances sideways at her and shakes his head slightly, but she’s not being deterred, she doesn’t care if Dean thinks they should just let Sam ramble himself deeper into fantasy, he’s wrong, he’s _wrong_.  
  
“Who’s Mordechai, Sam?” she asks. “Who are you talking to?”  
  
Sam’s eyes flick towards her, just for a moment, but it’s long enough for her to see. “Uh,” he says. “A Tibetan, uh. Can you--” He stops and leans against the door of the car, chewing his fingernail.  
  
“There’s no-one there,” she says, and then makes a guess ( _she hopes she’s right, God, she hopes she’s right_ ). “Dean’s not there, Sam. He’s here. He’s sitting next to me.”  
  
Dean’s lip curls. “Just let him think whatever he wants,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.   
  
Sam’s hunching his shoulders, shaking his head from side to side. “Thought form,” he says. “Tibetan, God, can you just, just.” He rubs a hand over his face, tense, fast. “I’m trying,” he says. “It’s so _loud_.”   
  
“What’s loud?” she says. “Sam?”  
  
“She can’t be real,” Sam mutters. “Mordechai is a, a tulpa, Tibetan.” He presses back into the seat, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Tibetan,” he says again, like it’s some kind of prayer.   
  
“Jesus, Jessica,” Dean says. “You’re making him worse,” and God, she _is_ ( _you’re making it worse_ ), Sam is leaning over now, fisting his hand in his hair, and did she do that, she was so _sure_ she was doing the right thing, so _sure_.  
  
And then Sam makes a keening noise and slips sideways on the seat, sprawling half into the footwell, and she realises there’s something else going on here.  
  
It’s a vision, bad, but not the worst, no blood ( _thank God_ ), and Dean curses and pulls over to the side of the road, and for all she’s desperate to get to Sam, he’s out of the car and has the back door open before she’s even finished unbuckling her seatbelt. Sam’s turned over on to his side and curled around himself, and Dean just grabs his shoulders and holds on like it’s all that he has left. She’s behind them, and she could go round and open the other door, but something about the set of Dean’s shoulders stops her, and she needs to help Sam but she thinks maybe Dean needs to help him more ( _and neither of them can help him anyway, not really, not with this_ ).  
  
“Sammy?” says Dean, and she hears Sam mutter something and cranes to see, and then Dean pulls back, like he’s remembered where he is, like he’s remembered that he’s mad at Sam, and she thinks _stupid stubborn_ asshole.  
  
“Fitchburg,” says Sam, sitting mostly upright now, head lolling slightly against the back of the seat. “Wis, Wisconsin. Dean.” He grabs Dean’s wrist as he starts to duck away, pulls hard, staring Dean in the eyes. “It’s not your fault, Dean,” he says, and she’s not sure what he’s talking about, but he’s wide-eyed, determined, and she knows it must be important. “Not your fault,” he repeats.  
  
“Damn straight,” says Dean, wrenching his wrist out of Sam’s grip and standing up. “This one’s on you, buddy boy. You chose this, not me.”  
  
Sam leans his head back and closes his eyes. “You were too young,” he says, like he’s talking to himself, and she thinks _he’s not talking about this, it’s something else_. “He shouldn’t have left you alone like that.”  
  
“Whatever,” says Dean, and goes to start the car, and she wonders how these two who seem sometimes to be like one person in two bodies can understand so little about each other.   
  
“You coming?” asks Dean, and she realises she’s still standing on the pavement. Moments later, she closes the car door, and Dean pulls out and heads towards Wisconsin.  
  
\----  
  
Fitchburg, Wisconsin is a _shtriga_ and a row of beds with unconscious children, faces pale and slack, eyelids blue, not like they’re sleeping, like they’re dead. It’s not the first time there’ve been kids involved – she remembers Dean telling her once that kids attract the supernatural more easily, and she remembers the moment with a smile that fades into guilt when she remembers that that was when Sam was still gone ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and ninety-three days_ ) – but the sheer number of them makes her heart-sick, and that has to be why John grows grimmer and even more tight-lipped, why Dean stops talking to say more than _yes sir_ and _no sir_ ( _three bags fucking full, sir_ , she thinks, and allows herself the spite), that has to be why, because she can’t think of anything else.  
  
It’s not why, though, she knows that. She knows there’s something that she’s missing, knows it in the way John’s face draws tight when he looks at Sam, the way Dean acts like Sam isn’t there at all but always seems to be between him and the door, even when it’s awkward to the point of impracticality. She’d think it was just because of what the not-Dean told them, except it’s not until Sam whispers the word _shtriga_ as he’s stumbling through the door of their new room ( _same as all the others_ ) in a motel that seems to be run by a smart-mouthed kid that it really sets in.  
  
It takes three days to catch the _shtriga_ , and by the time they do ( _by the time John and Dean do_ ), she’s starting to wonder again, wonder if maybe she doesn’t exist at all, if maybe she really _is_ just a figment of Sam’s fucked-up imagination. Sam hasn’t spoken to her since before they arrived in Wisconsin, and that hurts like hell, but she’s used to it ( _and how fucked up is that, that she’s used to Sam pretending that she doesn’t even exist_ ), but now Dean barely looks at her either, and she doesn’t miss the bitter irony in the fact that the only one of them who seems to notice her now is John. She’s barely in the same room as him, though, left behind with Sam while the two of them work the job, like it’s still October and she’s just a college girl who barely even believes that ghosts exist. Sam whispers to his own ghosts, and she finds herself turning on the television for something to fill the silence, daytime soaps that she used to love when she was trying to avoid school-work, that Sam used to tease her about. _My life is so boring_ , she would say, and he always asked _why would anyone want that much drama in their lives?_ She understands, now, and the tension of the stupid love triangles and long-lost siblings ( _back from the dead_ ) makes her sick, but it’s better than the silence, better than listening to Sam talk to anyone and everyone except her.  
  
That’s not entirely true though, because Sam doesn’t talk to Dean or John, either, doesn’t talk to anyone who’s actually real any more, and she’s not sure exactly when that started, but when Dean and John burst through the door and start packing, when John says _Sam, get your stuff_ and Sam doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even _look_ , she knows that she’s right. Maybe Sam’s decided they aren’t real after all, maybe he’s lost himself so much that he really can’t see them any more, but he’s drifted further away from them ( _you’re making it worse_ ) and she doesn’t know what to do.  
  
They leave Fitchburg, Wisconsin the same day, the _shtriga_ and the dying children receding in her mind like she can see them in the rear-view mirror. Another town saved, but they still can’t save themselves.  
  
\----  
  
Dean had been in a lot of weirdo fucking situations in his life – hell, if he wound up in a normal situation he’d probably die of shock – but posing as an art-dealer was pretty much a new one. All the same, the ( _vision_ ) information they had said that there was a haunted painting ( _haunted painting, Jesus fucking Christ_ ) that needed wasting, and Dean figured _professional painting-torcher_ wasn’t going to get them through the door, so art-dealer it was.  
  
The old guy was going to be a problem, though. Because yeah, OK, Dean could pretty much bullshit his way through anything, except apparently he sucked at pretending to know shit about art, and it wasn’t like he looked like an art-dealer, either, or at least, what he figured art-dealers looked like, all smoking jackets or silk scarves or what the fuck ever, or probably not battered leather jackets, at any rate. All the same, he figured he looked more the part than Sam, who was standing next to the painting he’d just led them to and chewing his lip like a fucking crazy person.  
  
Oh yeah, they were _so_ going to get kicked out.  
  
“Oh no, I’m sure if you look again at the list, you’ll find us there,” said Jessica, and Dean turned to stare at her as she smiled coolly at the old guy. “My client, Mr. Hawthorne, is very eager that I should find him something _special_ today,” she added, and Christ, she’d put on make-up, Dean hadn’t even noticed, and she had a pretty dress from somewhere, and even with her hair hacked off, she looked like _Jessica_ , like the girl he’d watched walking down the street arm-in-arm with Sam less than a year ago, and Dean was so freaked by that that he couldn’t help but look at Sam, see if he was the old Sam, too.  
  
Sam wasn’t looking at Dean, though, he was looking at Jessica, and his face was still pinched and pulled tight, hand still crippled, fingers still twitching. Sam had chosen to sign himself away, and nothing was going to bring him back, not art dealers, not murder, not even the power of fucking _angels_ , and Dean suddenly felt it all over again in his gut, sharp and unbearable, _fuck you, Sammy,_ fuck _you_.  
  
Then there was a black-haired chick standing right there, smiling at Jessica like they were best friends or whatever, and suddenly Dean felt Sam shift behind him, felt him step forward, and then Sam was kissing Jessica, _really_ kissing, full-on tongue action, the whole shebang. Dean stared, and he knew his mouth was open, but damn, he hadn’t expected that.  
  
The black-haired chick looked surprised, and then tried to hide a smile, turning her eyes away. The old guy was doing the whole disdain bit, but Dean’d been dealing with that all his life, so it wasn’t exactly an issue. Finally, Sam pulled back, breathing heavy. Jessica blinked up at him, half-shocked, half -- OK, fine, just completely shocked – and Sam looked over at the black-haired chick, shoulders set in that way he did when he was about to piss Dad off.  
  
“This is my-- This is Jess,” he said, and black-haired chick let that smile out.  
  
“So I see,” she said, and Dean rolled his eyes.  
  
“Don’t worry about my brother,” he said, “he’s—" And then he stopped, because he didn’t even know what he’d been planning to say next ( _a freak, retarded_ ( _crazy_ )), but whatever it was it wasn’t going to come out, no way, not ever, Jesus, Jesus fucking _Christ_ , and the old guy said something and Jessica answered, but Dean wasn’t listening any more, because fuck, _fuck_.  
  
Guilt and fear coiled hot in Dean’s gut, and at some point they were outside again, moving towards the car, and Dean felt like he was in a dream, _Jesus_ , Sam was ( _crazy_ ) _wrong_ , and he’d done it to himself, _God_.  
  
“We need to do the hair as well,” said Sam, and Dean ignored him, he was tired, so fucking _tired_ of Sam not making sense, of Sam talking to people who weren’t him, and then suddenly Jessica was in front of him, bristling in that pretty dress like she was about to take a chunk out of him, and Dean stopped and stared.  
  
“Why do you _do_ that?” she spat, and Dean frowned.  
  
“Do what?” he said ( _almost call Sam crazy_ ), and she rolled her eyes.  
  
“Ignore him,” she said, gesturing wild, and Dean stepped back to avoid getting smacked in the face.  
  
“He’s not talking to me,” Dean said, feeling the bitterness ( _guilt_ ) well up like acid in his throat. “Why the fuck should I talk to him?”  
  
“He’s not talking to you because he _doesn’t believe you exist_ ,” Jessica said, and Dean already had his mouth half-open to reply, but he stopped at that, because what, _what_?  
  
“What?” he asked, and damn, that sounded dumb, but Dean just didn’t fucking _get it_.  
  
“Don’t you get it, Dean?” she said, finger stabbing out towards him. “You’re the key to this. _You_. You’re the only one he sees in both realities. You’re the only one that can convince him that this one is real.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, because fuck that shit, fuck that _thing_ ( _that looked like Dean_ ) and all its bullshit. “Don’t give me that two realities crap,” he said. “What the fuck do you think this is, _Star Trek_? Demons lie.”  
  
Jessica shook her head, and Dean had the sudden urge to step aside to avoid getting burned by her stare, because _damn_. “It wasn’t a demon, Dean. You _know_ that.”  
  
“Oh, OK then,” Dean said. “It was an angel, right? Fluffy wings and a halo? You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
  
Jessica opened her mouth, but Dean was sick of arguing, sick and fucking tired ( _so goddamn tired_ ), so he turned away. “Get in the goddamn car,” he said, and didn’t look back to see if she was doing what he said ( _didn’t look back to see if_ Sam _was doing what he said_ ). A minute later, the car dipped a little as Jessica slid into the front seat, and Dean clenched his jaw and didn’t say anything, because hey, why the hell should Sam be sitting there anyway, it wasn’t like he could tell the freakin difference ( _crazy_ ).  
  
“We need to do the hair as well,” said Sam from the back seat, and Dean started the car and ignored him.  
  
\----  
  
Sam takes them to a graveyard, and for all she’s been in dozens now, she still can’t help but shiver as Dean breaks down the door to a mausoleum. There’s no-one here but them, them and the dead; Sam was dead, and sometimes she wonders if maybe he’s still dead, if they’re all dead; if maybe _she’s_ dead, if whatever it was that Sam saw that made him choose to give up his mind came true after all, if maybe the other timeline is the real one after all. She was raised Christian, but she never really believed in hell; now, she’s not so sure.  
  
Sam doesn’t look at either of them. He’s pressing his hand against a thick glass window in the wall of the mausoleum, and when she looks, she sees there’s a doll behind it, the old-fashioned kind with the china face, like the one her mom bought her once when she was a kid. Dean narrows his eyes at it.  
  
“Jesus, that’s a creepy-ass thing,” he says, and shoulders Sam aside like he’s a piece of furniture. He sizes up the window for a second, then draws his gun and shoots out the glass, pulling the doll out. “So, what,” he says, directing his words at her, not Sam. “What am I supposed to do with it?”  
  
She stares at the thing, dark hair curling around its pale face, and—  
  
“Hair,” she says. “He said we needed to do the hair.”  
  
Dean looks down at the thing in his hand, then curses. “You’re kidding me,” he mutters, and she thinks before, before the not-Dean, Dean might have said something else, some smartass comment that would make Sam grin or roll his eyes if he was particularly lucid, but Dean just shrugs and pulls out his lighter, and a few seconds later the place is full of the stench of burning hair, acrid at the back of her throat, and she steps outside into the air that’s heavy with summer and fresh grass and wonders why it is that graveyards don’t smell of death.  
  
Dean steps out after her, and she closes her eyes a second, but she’s been thinking about it ever since they left the auction house, she didn’t even know it until she said it herself ( _you’re the key_ ), but she needs to get Dean to see sense, because if she doesn’t, she might as well give up on Sam right now.  
  
“He was talking to you,” she says. “He was talking to you, and you ignored him.”  
  
Behind her, Sam comes out of the mausoleum, coughs a couple of times and wanders a few steps away. She keeps an eye on him. Dean stands half-turned away, but she knows for all his apparent indifference, he’s watching Sam too.  
  
“Dean?” she says, and Dean shrugs.  
  
“He wasn’t talking to me,” he says.  
  
“He said we needed to do the hair,” she insists, and Dean turns suddenly, face ugly with anger and breaking around the edges.  
  
“Yeah, and he could have been talking to the freakin tooth fairy for all we know. You’re just not getting this, are you? Sam’s not home right now, Jessica! Sam is _gone_ , and the sooner you get used to that fact, the sooner you get to give up this crappy life and go back home and find a new guy. Because Sam’s not coming back for you, and this martyr act is really getting old.”  
  
She’s stunned into silence for a second, anger twining sick in her gut, and fear with it, because it’s Dean saying this, _Dean_ , the only one who’s never doubted Sam, who’s always been looking for a way to fix him, who’s never given up. She barely even registers the way he talks about her, because she’s too busy trying to swallow the way he’s talking about _Sam_ , and she almost leaves it too long, Dean starts to turn away, like he thinks he’s won the argument, but she knows she can’t let that happen ( _Dean can never win this argument_ ), and she reaches out and grabs his sleeve.  
  
“He’s not gone,” she says. “He’s right there.”  
  
Dean looks over. Sam’s not looking at either of them, but his shoulders are rigid, and she knows he can hear them. She doesn’t know what would be worse, Sam not hearing them, so lost in his own head ( _gone_ ) that they didn’t exist for him any more, or this: Sam hearing Dean talk about him that way, _Dean_.  
  
Dean shakes his head, but the fire’s gone out of him now, he just looks tired ( _old_ ). “You think that thing wasn’t lying?” he says, and she bites her lip, because she doesn’t know what she thinks, but Dean carries right on. “It said we can’t fix him, Jessica. It said he’s not coming back.” He raises his hands, palms upwards, and tips his head back, laughing, _laughing_ , and the sound is twisted and ugly in his mouth. “I mean, when word comes down from on freakin high that you’re fucked, maybe it’s just time to—"   
  
“It said we were making it worse,” she says, because she can’t bear to hear it. “Sam’s still in there, Dean. I—" She stops, because the idea’s been forming in her mind for a while, but the rush of guilt it brings is almost unbearable. Dean’s staring at her though, and beyond him is Sam, back towards them, and she needs to try one more time. “I told him what it said,” she says. “I told him he was seeing two realities, and that only one was real.”  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You think he understood what you were talking about?” he asks, and it’s not really a question, more an outburst of incredulity, and she’s terrified by how far Dean’s faith in his brother has been shaken, but she presses on.  
  
“Yes, I do,” she says, and swallows. “I think he believed me. Dean,” she says, and she can’t look at him, because maybe it’s too late to fix this, and if it is, it’ll be her fault. “I think he chose the wrong one.”  
  
  



	18. Chapter 18

John’s not there when they get back to the motel, hasn’t been there for most of this job, and she’d like to say she doesn’t miss him, but the nervous feeling in her stomach tells her that she does, that she feels less safe when he’s gone, and that would be the most fucked-up thing that’s happened to her in the last year if it didn’t have so much competition. Still, however she feels about him, John isn’t there, and she thinks that’s a good thing, because she’s been watching Dean think the whole way back in the car, and she thinks maybe, maybe she’s gotten through to him. And if she’s gotten through to Dean, maybe Dean can get through to Sam.  
  
Dean drops into one of the room’s two plastic chairs when they get in, and Sam moves straight to the back of the room, paces the length of the wall twice, then stops and stares at the corner, shoulders hunched. Neither of them says anything, and she finds herself standing halfway between them, waiting.  
  
The silence draws out, the kind of silence that would have been uncomfortable and awkward before ( _before_ ), but she’s used to this now, used to it being quiet, and sometimes it presses on her eardrums so hard she wants to scream, but most of the time she’s just glad for it, glad because _quiet_ means Sam isn’t babbling or screaming, and she feels a little guilty that she’s happy Sam isn’t saying anything, but she’s used to that, too, and she just files that guilt away with the rest and waits.  
  
“Ever since we got here, you’ve been trying to pimp me out,” Sam says suddenly, and it’s weird, like he’d meant to say it with more force, pissed off, but it comes out unsure, worried, and Dean looks around.  
  
“Who’s trying to pimp you out?” he asks, and there, that’s it, Dean’s with her now, and the relief hits her so hard she almost has to sit down, and she thinks even with all the time she’s had to sit and think about it, she hadn’t realised how lonely she’d become.  
  
Sam blinks, shakes his head a little ( _he heard, he heard Dean_ ), and Dean squares his shoulders. “Sammy,” he says, an edge to his voice that makes her flinch a little, “you hear what I said?”  
  
Sam stands for a moment like he’s thinking, the fingers of his good hand twitching, and then Dean gets up and crosses the room, and now she really does have to sit down, because it’s so good not to have to do this on her own.   
  
“Sam,” says Dean, and then grabs Sam by the upper arms. “Hey, hey! Look at me!”  
  
Sam tries to turn his head away, but Dean grabs his chin, pulls on it, maybe a little too hard, but she knows what that feels like, to want to just _make_ Sam listen. “Who’re you talking to, huh?” Dean says. “You see anyone here except me and Jessica?”  
  
Sam blinks, eyes on something over Dean’s shoulder mouth twisted, sullen. “Leave me alone,” he says, low and nervous. “You’re not, you’re not real.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and she knows he’s going for _incredulous_ , but she’s known Dean Winchester for ten months ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and ninety-nine days_ ), and she knows _hurt_ when she sees it.  
  
“I feel like I’m not real to you?” Dean asks, and prods Sam in the shoulder. Sam twitches back, eyes still anywhere but Dean’s, but the surprise registers on his face, and Dean does it again. “I’m as real as you are, Sammy,” says Dean. “Me, and Jessica, and Dad. We’re real. Whatever else it is you’re seeing, it’s a load of crap.”  
  
Dean lets go of Sam’s chin, and Sam takes a step back. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw, and his eyes slide to Dean’s and then away ( _he doesn’t believe Dean_ ), and then there’s an idea, and she’s on her feet talking before she’s even really thought it through.  
  
“You can hear us thinking,” she says, and Dean and Sam both look at her sharply, and she wasn’t completely sure about it before, but Sam sees the future, so why not ( _because it’s crazy_ ), and the way Sam’s looking at her, she _knows_.  
  
The way Dean’s looking at her, though, is like he’s suddenly realised he’s the only sane person in the room. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asks, more anger coming to the surface now, and he was holding back for Sam, but he won’t for her.   
  
She hunches her shoulders a little, because it’s not fair, not fair that she should always be the one they take it out on, but she left _fair_ behind in California, and there’s no going back now. “He can, I know he can,” she says, and she’s aware of the whining edge to her voice, but she can’t seem to stop it. “You’ve seen what he can do, Dean. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it’s not just visions.”  
  
Dean’s face goes dark, lips pursed, and then he looks back at Sam, and she wonders if he remembers, wonders if he remembers Sam making Missouri shake in Lawrence, or Sam stopping Dean from touching her using only his mind in Joliet, wonders if he remembers those things or if he’s forgotten them on purpose, because there’s only so much you can remember before you start going crazy yourself.  
  
“Sam,” she says, stepping forward, and Sam looks up and away, but she’s going to make him listen, she needs to make him listen. “You can hear us thinking, can’t you?”  
  
Sam takes a step back and half-turns his body. “We’ll just leave,” he says, and she feels her shoulders drop, helpless, because he won’t listen.  
  
Then Dean’s moving again, grabbing Sam again, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You hear us thinking, Sammy?” he asks. “You hear _me_ thinking?”  
  
Sam flinches away, but Dean’s forcing Sam’s head round again, and finally Sam’s eyes flick to Dean’s.  
  
“Sometimes,” he says. “I hear all kinds of things.”  
  
Dean looks floored by that, but she thinks she might have the key. “How would you hear us thinking if we weren’t real, baby?” she asks, and Sam finally looks at her, _finally_ , and she thinks _that’s it, I’ve broken through_ , except that then Sam looks away.  
  
“How would I hear you thinking if you _were_ real?” he asks, and she doesn’t have an answer to that.  
  
\----  
  
They’ve been back maybe an hour, and it’s still too early to break into the gallery and burn the painting, even if John was back to help Dean do it. She’s exhausted, even though all they did today was visit an art gallery and burn a doll, feels like all the strength drained out of her with Sam’s most recent denial. Dean’s with her now, and that’s something, but she feels like all the relief she feels has been balanced by a loss of energy. She’s out of ideas; there’s nothing left to give.  
  
“Where the fuck is Dad,” mutters Dean, flipping his phone closed. He’s been pacing since they got back, like he thinks the best way to understand how to get through to Sam is to act just like him. Outside, the July sun’s beating down on the parking lot, but inside, the light is grey.  
  
“Ask Dean,” Dean says suddenly, and she looks up, looks around ( _oh God don’t let Dean be going crazy too I can’t handle it please_ ), but Dean’s not looking at her, he’s looking at Sam, looking at Sam with his face wide open like he’s five years old and he’s just figured out the meaning of life. Then he’s crossing the room, poking and worrying at Sam until Sam turns to look at him, and Dean looks up into his brother’s face and says “Ask Dean.”  
  
Sam coughs and looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “Ask him what?” he mumbles, like he’s trying not to be heard.  
  
“If he’s real,” says Dean. “Ask him if he’s real, Sammy.”  
  
Sam frowns. “Yeah, he’ll love that,” he mutters, and she suddenly wants to kiss him, because there he is, there’s Sam, there’s _Sam_ , she’s been looking for him all this time and he’s been right _there_. But Sam jerks suddenly, pulls away from Dean, and he’s staring at the wall, nervous, chewing his fingernails.  
  
“Is that him?” Dean asks, staring intently at the spot on the wall Sam’s looking at, like he’d kill it if he could, and Sam shuffles away slightly. “Ask him,” says Dean, not John’s _obey me or else_ tone, but the voice Dean’s made all his own, the one she’s heard him use every time he needs his brother to do what he says.   
  
Sam shuffles a little, and she sees how his shirt is sticking to his back with sweat, how his crippled hand is stiff and clumsy, how he looks like he hasn’t eaten enough for months; she sees it all, and it’s Sam, and they’re damn well going to take him back. “Ask him,” she joins in, and she remembers how to do this, too, how to talk to Sam like he’s an adult, like he’s the man she spent more than three years of her life bullying into doing the dishes, and Sam doesn’t look at her, but she knows he heard.  
  
Sam swallows convulsively, his head turning, following someone she can’t see, and she’s got used to that in the past months, but now that she knows – thinks she knows – what he’s seeing, it’s creepy all over again. “Uh, De-” he says, then coughs. “Dean?”  
  
He pauses like he’s listening, and she thinks maybe Dean gambled wrong, maybe the imaginary Dean can interact with Sam after all. Then Sam says, “I was just, uh. I. Are you. Are you real?”  
  
She holds her breath, and it seems like everything in New York joins in. The air is breathless and still, and even the traffic noise from outside seems to have disappeared. She waits until her head starts to feel light, then breathes out. Sam hasn’t moved.  
  
“Well?” Dean asks, prodding Sam again, like he needs to constantly remind Sam of his physical presence ( _and he does, God, he does_ ).  
  
Sam blinks, like he can’t really understand what’s going on, and he was so lucid, just a minute ago he was, please--  
  
“I don’t--” he says, then, clearing his throat, “I don’t think he heard me.”  
  
“He can’t hear you,” Dean says. “He’s not real.”  
  
Sam frowns, but Dean’s touching him again, scrabbling at his arm, pulling on his hair.  
  
“Ask me,” says Dean, and he’s practically _bouncing_ with tension. “Ask me, Sammy.”  
  
Sam turns to stare at him, _stares_ , like he’s seeing Dean for the first time ( _and maybe he is_ ). He opens his mouth and pauses, and she thinks maybe Dean’s going to explode with the waiting.  
  
“Are you real?” says Sam finally, and Dean grins like he’s lost his mind and spreads his arms wide.  
  
“Realer than Pamela Anderson’s tatas,” he says, and laughs, and it’s not funny, but even if it was, the manic edge to Dean’s laugh would scare her, and she’s about to add something when suddenly Sam starts laughing, too.  
  
“Nice,” he says, and Dean’s face practically cracks in two, he’s smiling so hard.  
  
\----  
  
Dean hadn’t meant to fall asleep, hell, he hadn’t needed a nap in the middle of the day since he was four years old, but all the same, when he opened his eyes, it was dark, and Sam was hunched over him, staring down into his face like a freakin golem. Dean made a noise that was totally manly and started back, and Sam reared up, startled and stumbling back until the backs of his legs hit the other bed and he tipped over, landing on his ass with a grunt and narrowly avoiding crushing Jessica. She started and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.  
  
“Wow,” said Dean. “You’re like a ninja.”  
  
Sam blinked at him, eyes huge in the gloom. “Are you real?” he asked, and Dean swallowed, felt resentment and relief mixed in his belly, because Sam could see him, Sam was _talking_ to him and that was _awesome_ , that was maybe the best thing that had happened to Dean for months, but Sam could see the other Dean, too, the Dean who’d fucked Sam’s head up so bad that he had to struggle every day (or wait, that was the not-Dean; this was just the Dean who Dean _would_ have been if things had turned out differently, but Dean didn’t care, he was pretty sure he hated the guy anyway), and Dean wondered if Sam would have to ask him if he was _real_ every time he saw him for the rest of his life.  
  
“Dean?” asked Sam, and Dean sighed.  
  
“I’m real,” he said. “I’m the real one.” He hauled himself off the bed, cuffing Sam round the head on the way in case he got any funny ideas about who was _real_ and who wasn’t, and checked his cell. No messages from Dad.  
  
“Guess it’s just me on torching detail tonight, then,” he muttered, trying to ignore the slow burn of worry in his belly. Dad’d been gone before, taken off without warning even, and he could take care of himself. Dean had enough to worry about.  
  
Dean was most of the way through packing his duffle ( _salt, gasoline, matches, just another day at the office_ ) when he turned round to find Sam standing right behind him. “Jesus,” he muttered, and tried for annoyed, but it was pretty hard given that this was what he’d wanted for months, for Sam to be _right there_.   
  
“Can I come?” asked Sam, and Dean frowned.  
  
“Come where?” he asked, aware of Jessica watching them in the background.  
  
“To, uh, to torch the…” Sam trailed off and rubbed a quick hand over his face, then took two deep breaths and swallowed hard. “To torch the painting,” he said, firm, like he was arguing with someone in his head.  
  
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to you setting yourself on fire since you were two.”  
  
Sam blinked at him like he didn’t understand ( _don’t get cocky, he’s not better, not yet_ ) and opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. “Is that—" he said, then, “But can I, can I come with you?”  
  
Dean counted to three and breathed out sharp, because God, he wanted Sam to be able to come, more than anything, but it wasn’t _safe_ , not the way he was right then. And then Jessica came quietly up to Sam’s elbow and said “It’s OK, Dean, we’ll wait in the car.”   
  
Sam took a half-step away, to the side, then looked at Dean and frowned. “Is she real?” he whispered, like somehow Jessica wouldn’t be able to hear him when she was standing less than a foot away.  
  
Dean scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Yeah, she’s real,” he said, not looking at Jessica’s face, because it was hard enough to deal with the way he felt about this without having her crap as well. “She’s always real, Sammy.”  
  
Sam turned huge eyes on Jessica like he couldn’t really believe what he was hearing, and Dean had to look then, look at the way she was watching him, and damn, there was nothing on her face but patience and determination, and he wondered where the red-eyed sorority girl he’d met at a police station in Palo Alto had gone. “I’m real,” she said, and Sam heaved a shuddering breath.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was my fault.”  
  
And that was about as much as Dean wanted to hear right then. He had a painting to torch and a ghost to waste, and the last thing he wanted was to hang around talking about his feelings with his brother and his— and Jessica.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “You can come. But stay in the car.”  
  
\----  
They’re heading out to the Impala, the heat of the day still radiating up from the asphalt, when Sam grabs her arm.  
  
“Can I--” he mutters, his voice low like he doesn’t want Dean to hear, “can I ride in the, in the back?”  
  
She stares. Sam’s been riding in the back since they left Georgia, and it’s not the first time she’s wondered why – but then again, with the dark cloud that’d been hanging over Dean since Massachusetts, car journeys had been taut with anger, Sam and Dean tense in the front as she tried not to let it get to her in the back, and she’d thought about suggesting it before Georgia, but she didn’t think Dean would have it, he might have been mad as hell at Sam, but it was still _Dean and Sam_. Now, though-- “Why?” she asks, because she wants to know if Sam is scared of his brother, wants to know how far that relationship has cracked.  
  
“It’s.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, looks nervous. “It’s easier. To tell.” He holds her gaze, pleading, but she needs a moment, needs to figure out what he’s talking about.  
  
“I don’t understand,” she says, and Dean’s waiting for them now, looking impatient.  
  
“In, in the other--” Sam bites his lip. “It’s the same,” he says. “It’s, when it’s the same it gets hard to tell.”  
  
 _I can’t tell_ , that’s what Sam said back in Georgia, and she thinks about how much time she’s spent in that car in the last months, crossing the continent back and forth, always the same view, the backs of Sam and Dean’s heads. In the other future, the future where she’s dead, Sam and Dean are travelling together too, and she can only assume they spent just as much time in the car, which means that most likely, sometimes Sam is in the car in both realities, riding shotgun next to Dean. _When it’s the same it gets hard to tell_ , and it makes her draw a deep breath in something that might be relief, because Sam’s still not making sense, not completely _there_ , but he’s trying, he’s trying to find a way to make his life less confusing.  
  
“OK,” she says. “Do you want me to ride in back too?”  
  
He looks for a second like he wants to say yes, then shuts his mouth firmly and shakes his head, and she wonders why until she sees the way Dean’s shoulders stiffen when Sam slides into the back seat and how they relax just a fraction when she sits down in the front. Dean doesn’t comment on the arrangements, just throws the car into gear and pulls out, but she catches his eye in the rear-view mirror and tries to make it clear to him anyway. _We’re not trying to exclude you. We’re just trying to help Sam_.  
  
\----  
  
Dean’s in the art gallery for maybe twenty minutes, in and out and then they’re standing in a field watching the painting shrivel and melt, and she’s hanging on to Sam’s arm in case he walks into the fire, and Sam says _I told you, you shouldn’t have come_.  
  
“What?” says Dean, and then Sam shakes his head and looks around.  
  
“I, uh,” he says, and chews on his nail. “This isn’t the right way,” he says, like he’s talking to someone next to him, but there’s nothing there but empty darkness for miles.   
  
“Not the right way for what?” she asks, trying to get his attention back to them, and he looks at her, then at Dean, and then at someone who isn’t there.  
  
“I can’t tell,” he says. “There’s got to be, I have to be able to tell.”  
  
The light from the fire’s still flickering, warm and yellow, but the shadows it makes on Dean’s face make him look hollow. He steps up to Sam and socks him in the arm.  
  
“It’s me,” he says. “Can’t you tell it’s me?” His voice is low and rough, and if she didn’t know him she’d think he was angry. She does, though. She knows Dean Winchester better than almost anyone, and when she remembers how many secrets Sam kept from her, she thinks maybe she knows Dean better even than Sam. Dean’s not angry, and she suddenly wonders what it would be like, if she was alive in the other timeline, if Sam saw two of her and couldn’t tell which one was which. Maybe she’s crazy ( _probably she’s crazy_ ), but she thinks she might be the lucky one.  
  
Sam puts his good hand up to Dean’s shoulder but doesn’t touch him, just lets the hand hover there a minute, face turned down in apology. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t – my, my head is -- _wrong_.”  
  
Dean swallows and clenches his fists hard enough that she can see the muscles move in his shoulders. Then he breathes in deep through his nose.  
  
“Jessica,” he says, and she waits, but he’s not looking at her. “Jessica’s – she’s not there in the other – you know, reality or whatever, right?”  
  
Sam cocks his head on one side, then glances sideways at her. “No,” he whispers. “She’s… gone.” _Gone_ , he says, and she wonders if he’s been keeping a count of days, like she has ( _Sam’s been gone two hundred and ninety-nine days_ ).  
  
Dean nods slow. “Jessica is real,” he says. “She’s always real. The real me is the one Jessica can see.” And he looks at her then, and she has to look away, the hollowness not enough to hide how much it hurts for him to make Sam’s faith in him dependent on her. She tightens her fingers on Sam’s arm, and he looks down at her.  
  
“You’re not gone,” he says, and she shakes her head.  
  
“No,” she says. “No, baby, I’ve been right here all along.” And she reaches out and pushes his hand down till it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder. “That’s your brother,” she says, and thinks about how they’re connected now, both of them touching Sam.   
  
Sam looks back at Dean, and his hand tightens. “OK,” he says, voice barely audible over the quiet night breeze. “OK.”  
  
\----  
  
Dean curses when he pulls back into the motel parking lot. “Forgot to turn my phone back on,” he says when she looks at him, and she’s just relaxing when he curses again and puts the phone to his ear.  
  
“Shit,” he mutters after a long pause, and then flips the phone shut and clears his throat. “Dad’s gone to Colorado,” he says. “Said to wait for him here.”  
  
She frowns, tries to remember when she last saw John; she knows he didn’t say anything about going anywhere. “Why?” she asks.  
  
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t say. Guess he found a job there or something.”  
  
She supposes that’s OK; it’s not like John can’t take care of himself, not even like he hasn’t gone off on his own since they got Sam back. All the same, _Colorado_ is different to _across town_ , and the feeling of insecurity she’s had all day intensifies a little, like any minute someone’s going to smash her to the ground and tell her that all the progress they’ve made has been a lie, and she supposes that the one good thing about being at rock bottom was that she had no further to fall.  
  
“OK, wakey-time,” says Dean, and reaches into the back seat, jostles Sam’s knee. Sam’s eyes snap open, and swivel wildly for a second, before landing on her.  
  
“That’s Dean, that’s your brother,” she says, and feels Dean stiffen beside her, but Sam relaxes a little, and he bats Dean’s hand away.  
  
“Hands off, ’m not your girlfriend,” he mumbles, and Dean looks astonished, then barks out a laugh.  
  
“Dude, no way I’d have a girlfriend as ugly as you,” he says. “Now get your ass out of the car.”  
  
Sam whispers to someone else most of the way across the parking lot, but it’s not Dean he’s talking to, and she wonders why that makes it OK, why the fact that Sam’s talking to someone who’s a complete figment of his imagination is better than him talking to a Dean who never was. It’s only when they get into the motel room that he stops suddenly and looks around.  
  
“Is Dad real?” he asks, and Dean stops so suddenly she almost runs into his back.  
  
“You see Dad?” he asks, and Sam looks around, shakes his head.  
  
“Not yet,” he mutters. “He’s not here yet.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Dad’s in Colorado, Sammy.”  
  
Sam nods. “I know,” he says. “Colorado, with the— But we’ll see him there.”  
  
Dean shakes his head again, more slowly this time, brows coming down. “No,” he says. “He told us to wait for him here.”  
  
Sam blinks once, twice, then looks from Dean to her. “Is Dad real?” he asks, and she swallows.  
  
“The one who’s been with us this whole time is real,” she says. “Is there another one?”  
  
Sam paces across the room, stares at something in the corner long enough she thinks he isn’t going to answer, then hunches his shoulders. “He’s gone,” he says, and she remembers that that’s the word he used of her, _gone_ ( _dead_ ), and she wants to ask something else, but Sam turns round and stares at Dean.  
  
“Then where is he?” he says, and Dean huffs in frustration.  
  
“I told you, he’s in Colorado,” he says. “He’ll be back in a couple of days, OK?” His voice is rising, like he’s expecting objections, but Sam’s eyes go wide.  
  
“No,” he says. “No, I didn’t, I didn’t _mention_ it, it’s supposed to be, I’m supposed to be able to—" He shakes his head, pacing again, and God, _God_ , she was stupid, stupid to let herself think maybe they were getting somewhere, like all it would take would be telling Sam which Dean was real and he would be – God, she was stupid, but no matter how stupid she was, surely she doesn’t deserve to feel like _this_.  
  
“Sam,” says Dean, and then, sharper, “Sammy!” but Sam keeps on pacing, pulling at his hair.   
  
“He can’t go there, it’s supposed to be different,” he says. “Just leave it there, just _leave it_.”  
  
She looks at Dean, and he’s standing loose-shouldered, panic rising in his face. “Sam,” she says, “what’s wrong with Colorado?”  
  
Sam stops dead and looks at her, pleading, like somehow she can fix all this. “Don’t let him go,” he says. “Don’t let him.”  
  
“Shit,” says Dean. “ _Shit_.” And then he starts packing, and she doesn’t even have to ask where they’re going.  
  
\----  
  
They drive for what’s left of the night and half of the morning before Dean pulls over in a little town that’s surrounded by nothing, and she realises she doesn’t even know what state they’re in, except it’s not Colorado, not yet. She’s been dozing most of the way, Dean’s occasional sharp voicemail messages to his father piercing her dreams, and she blinks up at Dean as he pulls the door open.  
  
“Come on,” he says. “Need to stock up on holy water and all that blessed crap. No idea what we could be going up against.”  
  
She steps out and finds that they’re outside a church, a big one, bigger than she might expect in a town like this. Sam stumbles out of the back, and she looks at the two of them, brothers, and the strongest family resemblance right now is how worn and frayed they both look.   
  
Dean sneaks into the back of the church while she distracts the priest, leaving Sam sitting in a pew, head buried in a hymnal, and she wonders if he understands what he’s reading, if the secretive words of the Bible make sense to his tangled brain in a way they never did to hers. She nods and smiles and asks questions about religion, claims to have had an irreligious upbringing and be looking to convert, and restrains herself from asking questions about exorcisms and angels. The priest heads to the other end of the church to hunt up some literature for her, and she thinks they’re home free until she hears Sam say _It’s supposed to be different_ , voice loud in the cool quiet of the nave, and she turns to see him on his feet, glaring down at another priest, who’s looking up at him, bemusement visible on his face even from here.  
  
She wants to curse, but she’s in a _church_ , so she contents herself with making a garbled noise and hurries over. “It’s supposed to be different,” says Sam again, accusation rich in his tone, and she grabs his arm.  
  
“Hey, baby,” she says, half-whispering. “Leave the nice man alone, OK?” She winces, because she’s doing it again, treating him like a child, but—  
  
“Is your friend all right?” the priest asks, tone mild, rising from the pew. Sam takes two steps back.  
  
“It’s not _all right_ ,” he snarls, and she pulls him behind her a little.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “He gets agitated… He’s been having a hard time.”   
  
“I understand,” says the priest. “It happens to the best of us.” He turns his gaze to Sam. “God will provide, my son. Trust in Him.”   
  
She wants to thank him for not looking at Sam like he’s crazy, but she can feel Sam shifting with anger behind her, and then she looks over the priest’s shoulder and sees Dean’s head appear around the main door, eyebrows raised, and she grabs Sam’s arm and pulls.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says again, and doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop moving until they hit the open air, doesn’t let herself feel Sam shaking under her hand.  
  
They’re halfway to the car when Dean catches up with them, and he doesn’t speak until they’re safely inside. Then he turns to her.  
  
“What the fuck was that about?” he asks. “Something happen in there?”  
  
She shakes her head, shrugs, doesn’t want to talk about how Sam just lost it at a random guy, a priest, God.  
  
“Jim said—" Sam starts, voice hard with anger, and then he tails off. “I can still stop it,” he mutters, and starts chewing on his fingernail.  
  
“Who’s Jim?” Dean asks, turning to look in the back. “Pastor Jim?”  
  
Sam glares at him a second, then looks away, and she frowns.  
  
“Who’s Pastor Jim?” she asks, but Dean shrugs.  
  
“A guy we know in Minnesota,” he says.   
  
She nods and closes her eyes. Sometimes Sam seems so much like _Sam_ that she almost forgets anything’s happened at all, and then there are times like this ( _Sam’s been gone three hundred days_ ).  
  
“Colorado,” says Dean, and throws the car into gear.  
  
\----  
  
They’re four miles from the state line when Dean’s phone shrills, and Dean flips it open, then almost kills them all pulling over.  
  
“Dad,” he says. “I’ve been calling.”  
  
She can’t hear what John says, but the tone comes through loud and clear, and Dean’s shoulders sag. “We’re in Nebraska,” he says, then, “Yeah, not too far. OK, we’ll see you there.” He snaps the phone shut and rests his hands on the steering wheel for a second, then rolls his shoulders and starts to pull out.  
  
“Where are we going?” she asks after maybe five minutes, and she wonders if he would have remembered to tell them at all if she hadn’t spoken ( _like father like son_ ).  
  
“Motel,” says Dean, the worry that’s been tight in his face since Sam’s little breakdown crumbling into relief and a different tightness. “Dad’s gonna meet us there.” He glances at Sam in the rear-view mirror. “He’s fine,” he adds.  
  
She looks at Sam, too, but Sam’s just staring out of the window like he can see something they can’t.  
  
\----  
  
They’ve only been in the motel an hour when the door swings open and John strides in, and he’s _there_ , straight away, filling the room like he’s the only one in it.   
  
“Dad,” says Dean, and John jerks his chin at him.   
  
“Thought I told you to stay in New York,” he says, and Dean swallows.  
  
“Sammy was worried,” he says, and John glances over at his younger son. Sam’s standing in the corner of the room twitching, but he meets John’s stare with one of his own, and she feels frustrated and obscurely proud at the same time.  
  
“Vision?” asks John, directing the question at Dean, not Sam.  
  
“No, just…” Dean closes his eyes, and she realises he hasn’t slept since yesterday afternoon. “He was just worried,” he finishes. “We were worried.”  
  
John keeps looking at Dean for a long moment, and Dean ducks his head, but then John grunts. “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” he says. “You’re here, which saves me some time.” He reaches under his coat and pulls out a gun, longer and more ornate than the ones she’s used to, like something out of a cowboy movie.  
  
“What’s that?” asks Dean.  
  
“This?” John raises it with a grim smile. “This is what’s going to win this thing for us.” And he slams the gun down on the table and claps Dean on the shoulder with his other hand.   
  
Dean looks surprised, then pleased, but she feels frustration welling up inside her, because why can he _never_ give a straight answer, and she’s about to ask what he means when Sam makes a noise and she turns to see him staring at the gun like it’s a bomb, and her frustration is washed away with a cold wave of foreboding.  
  
“It’s supposed to be different,” whispers Sam, but nobody hears him except her.


	19. Chapter 19

She wakes up because something’s scrabbling under her bed, and adrenaline turns her stomach sour before she registers Dean’s ass on the edge of her field of vision ( _not a monster_ ), and she’s forced to spend a moment or two just breathing, listening to her heart thunder in her ears and staring up at the water stains on the ceiling. She closes her eyes for a second, but she has to open them again, because even with the stench of stale cigarette smoke barely masked by industrial bleach, even with the sheets limp with sweat around her, she suddenly can’t tell where she is, can’t tell if the noise under the bed is her crazy boyfriend’s half-crazy brother or one of her mother’s overfed cats, and her brain’s exhausted, has to be, because it translates the sound of raised voices that filters through the wall from the next room as her sister arguing with her father about curfew rules. She has to open her eyes, because she thinks maybe if she doesn’t, she’ll let herself slip into that fantasy, and she can’t indulge in insanity right now, Sam’s counting on her ( _Dean’s counting on her_ ).  
  
“Dammit,” mutters Dean, and she sits up, watches him crawl out from under the bed and struggle into a sitting position on the floor. His hair’s mussed every which way, t-shirt rucked up around his chest, and for all she knows he’s capable of killing a man before they even know they’ve been targeted, he looks like a child.   
  
“What is it?” she asks, rolling her shoulders and taking careful stock of the room. Sam’s in the bathroom, running water not quite drowning out the low sound of his muttering, and John’s out somewhere. The room looks like a tornado’s hit it, the contents of the duffles strewn out across the floor, a mess of dirty clothes and gun parts, bags of salt and car magazines, and if it wasn’t for Dean’s petulant frown, she’d think that there’d been some kind of attack. As it is, she just waits and feels the corners of her mouth twitch up.  
  
“Lost my phone,” Dean says, tone wavering between _pissed off serial killer_ and _despondent eight year old_. The corners of her mouth twitch more, and she fights to keep back the laugh bubbling up in her throat. Dean’s noticed, though, and he glares, and once upon a time maybe that glare would have had her falling back, running for the nearest exit, but now it just makes it worse.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, or she tries to say it, anyway, but it comes out as a kind of garbled gasp.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Dean growls, and runs his hand through his hair, leaving it even more messed up than before, if that was even possible. She snorts, and then just gives up and giggles, and it’s not like in the cabin in Vermont, not dangerous laughter, so she lets it go. Dean keeps on glaring, but she sees his mouth twitching too, and that’s OK, it’s OK ( _maybe it’s going to be OK_ ).  
  
“Well, I need it,” says Dean, and now _serial killer_ ’s gone completely and _eight year old_ is out in full force, and she curls up on her side and hiccups until the water shuts off and Sam comes out of the bathroom, head cocked on one side, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. Dean’s phone is in his hand, and that’s almost more than she can bear, coughing into the pillow and flapping her hand in Sam’s direction, as if Dean won’t have already seen it, as if Dean won’t have been aware of everything about Sam from the moment he walked into the room.  
  
“Dude!” Dean says, and jumps to his feet, snatching his phone out of Sam’s hand. “What the hell?”  
  
Sam stares, hand still cupped like it’s holding the phone. “I don’t have a phone,” he says. “I lost it somewhere.”  
  
That’s enough to stop her laughing, remembering those days in Palo Alto when all they had was Sam’s phone, when all she had of _Sam_ was a gun hidden behind the wardrobe and a phone left on the side of the highway and two strangers who knew him better than she did. Dean just raises his eyebrows and smacks Sam gently on the arm, though.  
  
“You don’t get to have a phone,” he says. “Only the sane people around here are allowed to operate electrical equipment.”  
  
It ought to be cruel, she thinks, too close to the bone, it ought to be _wrong_ ; all it is is _Dean_ , though, and she dissolves again, tips her head back and clutches her stomach and the water stains on the ceiling suddenly don’t look so bad.  
  
“Your girlfriend’s crazy,” says Dean across the room, and she looks over just in time to see Sam beam at Dean, smile wide enough to chase away all the exhaustion and weakness from his face.   
  
“I love her,” he says, and Dean coughs.  
  
“Stop right there,” he says. “Some of us are fragile.”  
  
Sam looks like he might be going to say something else, but then the door swings open and John strides in, stopping short on the threshold and frowning, eyes roving across the mess, across Dean still in his sleeping clothes and Sam with wet hair plastered to his forehead and her, lying on the bed with the pillow clutched in one fist. He raises a slow eyebrow.  
  
“Been trying to call you,” he says to Dean, and that’s enough to set her off again, she doesn’t care what John thinks ( _she never has, not really_ ), and she sees both Sam and Dean grin.  
  
She can’t let herself slip into fantasy, can’t indulge in insanity right now. And maybe, maybe she doesn’t want to.  
  
\----  
  
“Pack your stuff,” said Dad, and Dean shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth and nodded, heading over to where the duffles were waiting in the corner. Everything was pretty fucked up in there after Dean had torn through pretty much everything they owned that morning, and he knew Dad knew it. Still, Dean had a lifetime’s experience of packing, he could totally win prizes if they had competitions for something that was about as interesting to watch as curling without the weirdo brooms, so he wasn’t too concerned.  
  
“Why?” said Jessica across the room, and Dean hid an eyeroll, crouching down to drag the bundle of shirts out of the first duffle and try and untangle it. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Iowa,” said Dad, and Dean made a mental note. Iowa was about as interesting as curling without the brooms _or_ the potential of brawls breaking out between the Canucks and the Swedes, but if there was something there that needed killing, Dean wasn’t going to complain. He could really do with some killing right now.  
  
“What are we going to do there?” Jessica asked, and Dean could practically _hear_ Dad gritting his teeth. Great. Sam was a nutcase, and Jessica was Sam, and all that had changed was that there was a little more crazy floating around.  
  
“I’ve found out some things about the thing we’re hunting,” said Dad, and Dean did stop packing at that, looked around. “It is a demon,” Dad added.  
  
Jessica frowned. “It said it was an angel,” she said, and Dean saw Dad frown.  
  
“Not that thing,” he said. “The thing that killed my wife.”  
  
Jessica’s turn to frown now, and Dean was pretty sure there was no way this could end well. He flicked a glance over at Sam, sitting on the floor by the bathroom door and staring at something on the back of his hand; yeah, like Sam’d be much help in heading off an argument with Dad anyway.  
  
“I thought we were trying to help Sam,” Jessica said, and oh yeah, Dean already knew Sam was into girls he had a lot in common with, but this was ridiculous – he didn’t know when she’s picked it up, but he’d recognise that thrusting chin anywhere.  
  
Dad raised an eyebrow. “The thing that hurt Sam is dead,” he said, and Dean shuddered slightly, remembering the way Dad had looked when he’d found that son of a bitch lying in a pool of blood in the parking lot. “What are you suggesting we do now?”  
  
Jessica’s jaw tightened even more, and Dean closed his eyes. “Helping Sam isn’t just about killing things,” she started, but Dad cut her off.  
  
“There’s lives at stake here, Jessica,” he said. “We’ll do what we can for Sam, but we need to look at the bigger picture.”  
  
“Salvation,” said Sam suddenly, and OK, _that_ was not what Dean expected, OK, so they were dealing with demons and things that said they were angels, but that was—  
  
“That’s right,” Dad said, and now Dean was completely lost, and Dad was looking at Sam with this weirdo look on his face, like he couldn’t quite figure him out, which, fair enough, figuring Sam out was a full-time job these days, but what did he mean _salvation_?  
  
“What?” Jessica asked, and Dean nodded to himself and went back to packing. Apparently he wasn’t needed in this conversation.  
  
“Salvation, Iowa,” said Dad, and oh, OK, that made sense. “That’s where it’s going to hit next.”  
  
“How do you know?” Jessica asked, hovering somewhere between curious and angry now, and hell, if she really was like Sam, she was probably asking questions just to piss Dad off.  
  
“Electrical storms,” muttered Sam, and Dad’s eyebrows crept up a little higher, but Dean remembered the room Sam had been living in back in Lawrence, the maps and diagrams all over the wall and the crazy ramblings and Sam saying _electrical storms_ and grinning at Dean like he expected to get some kind of prize. That was months ago, now. Electrical storms.  
  
“Have you seen this?” Dad asked suddenly, taking a couple of strides across the room to stand by Sam. Sam craned his neck, one hand on the floor, the other splayed against the wall behind him, and Dad peered down at him, and Dean couldn’t help thinking of when Sam was five and _knew_ things, and Dad didn’t understand ( _was terrified_ ). “Do you know what’s going to happen?”  
  
“No,” said Sam. “No, I don’t know. It’s going to be different. It’s got to be different.”  
  
“Different from what?” Dad asked, and when Sam didn’t answer, he crouched down, grabbed Sam’s face in one hand. “This could be important, Sam. Different from what?”  
  
“Don’t,” said Jessica, halfway across the room already, but Dean was faster, because he got it, he knew what it was like to just want to get those secrets out of Sam’s brain, but he’d spent eighteen years watching Dad trying and failing and pushing Sam further away every time, and they couldn’t afford that right now, no way, there was going to be no more distance in this family if Dean could help it.  
  
“Dad,” he said, and reached out, gently pulling Dad’s fingers away from Sam’s face. Dad looked at him, and Dean looked back. “Just let me,” he said, and turned his attention on Sam.  
  
“Do we go to Salvation in the other place, Sam?” he said, and Sam looked uncomfortable, Dad and Dean crouched in front of him and Jessica hovering in the background. He pressed back against the wall a little, and Dean willed Dad to pull back and give him some space, but Dad was just _there_ , like always.  
  
“We go there,” Sam said finally.  
  
Dean nodded. “Do we find the demon that killed Mom?” he asked. “Do we kill it?”  
  
Sam blinked twice, then slipped sideways and stumbled to his feet, rubbing his broken hand on his cheek.  
  
“No,” he said, “no, we kill it in, in—" He stopped, eyes rolling to the side like he was trying to remember something, then coughed. “Wyoming, in Wyoming. But it’s too late, it’s too late, Dean. We can’t let it be the same.”  
  
“Wyoming,” said Dad, and frowned, standing up slowly. “Is the demon there now?”  
  
Sam chewed his lip, and Dean raised an eyebrow, because he knew Sam, maybe Sam was different now, fucked up, but Sam had always been fucked up, hell, he was a Winchester, and Dean still knew his little brother, and he knew Sam was trying to decide whether to lie. Finally, Sam dropped his head so his hair covered his eyes.  
  
“No,” he said. “Fine, OK. Salvation. Fine.”  
  
Dad nodded. “Salvation it is,” he said.   
  
\----  
  
The truck pulls over when they’re still a couple of hours out, John out and standing on the verge before Dean’s even had a chance to stop the Impala. The sky’s high and white, featureless, like everything outside the world’s disappeared leaving nothing but emptiness where there used to be galaxies, and John curses and raises his face, mouth pressed tight, and she knows something horrible has happened.  
  
“Jim Murphy’s dead,” says John, and his mask’s half-slipped, shock creeping out from underneath.  
  
Dean opens his mouth and closes it again, frowns in confusion. “Pastor Jim?” he asks, and she remembers the priest in a nothing town somewhere between New York and Colorado and is about to try to dredge up some sorrow when she remembers that that wasn’t this man, that that was just a bystander who Sam thought was someone he knew, and she has the nagging thought that Sam doesn’t do that, that he may not be fully lucid most of the time, but he’s never thought a stranger was someone he knew before ( _or not a strange human, anyway_ ), but there isn’t time to think about that, because someone named Pastor Jim is dead, and John Winchester grief is as intense as his rage.  
  
“God,” Dean mutters, and then looks across at Sam. “You OK, Sammy?”  
  
Sam’s chewing on his cuticles, staring out over the fields like none of this concerns him, and she’d wonder where he is right now ( _Sam’s been gone three hundred and three days_ ), except the set of his shoulders and the angle of his head makes her think that he’s right _here_.  
  
“Sammy?” says Dean. “Did you hear what Dad said?”  
  
“They can’t read your mind,” Sam says, then turns to look at his father. “Dad. They can’t read your mind, not really. Only if you let them.”  
  
John’s jaw clenches. “We don’t have time for this,” he says, and starts to get back in his truck, but Sam darts forward a couple of steps and grabs John’s arm.   
  
“I’m gone,” he says. “I’m _gone_.”  
  
 _You’re not gone_ , she thinks, but she’s not sure, she wants it to be true, but she’s learned pretty fast that what she wants doesn’t count for anything, not in this new world. She’d be bitter about it, maybe, except it seems like it’s the same for everyone, that _what I want_ is as irrelevant for Winchesters as _if only we hadn’t_ , and she wonders how she can have spent so many years not even thinking before wanting.  
  
“We’re all gone,” says John, and gets back in the truck.  
  
 _We’re all gone._  
  
\----  
  
“It’s gonna hurt,” said Sam, and shuddered, and Dean was instantly paying attention, because hell, he hadn’t been reading the damn records anyway, his eyes kept sliding off the page with boredom, and maybe Jessica _was_ more convincing as an official, or more, what was the word, _winning_ or whatever, but Dean was itching to do some hunting, and sitting on his ass going through a mountain of paper was seriously not what he meant by that.  
  
On the other hand, the fact that Jessica was off batting her eyelashes at some desk-jockey did mean Dean got to hang out with Sam, which, OK, Sam wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest conversationalist right now, but that wasn’t so different from what he’d been like before he left for Stanford, and it wasn’t that Dean was desperate to spend some time with the little freak, it was just that he figured the more he hung around hi,, the more likely Sammy would be able to figure out which Dean was _real_ without Dean having to practically beat the crap out of him.  
  
Of course, the other thing about hanging around with Sam was that sometimes he said some weirdo crap. Like now.  
  
“What’s gonna hurt, Sammy?” Dean asked, dropping his sheaf of papers back on the table and keeping his voice low. He’d already had one dried-up old bastard shush him, and Dean didn’t do shush.  
  
“Better,” said Sam, hand straying towards his head. “Better get us out of here, Dean, or—" Then he made a noise that Dean would have loved to have said he’d never heard before, and toppled sideways off his chair, hip and elbow hitting the floor loud enough for Dean to hear the crack, and _oh God oh God Sammy_ curled around his head, gasping and twitching.  
  
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Dean was vaguely aware people hovering, someone asking him if he needed an ambulance, but he didn’t want any of that crap, doctors and sirens and _sick_ , he just wanted everyone to get the _hell_ away from Sam, just wanted Sam to stop jerking like he was having a goddamn _seizure_ , just wanted ( _God Dad I need help_ ) this to be over.  
  
And then, it was. Sam coughed and uncurled a little, eyes barely slits, blood trickling over his upper lip. “Need to get out of here,” he whispered, voice rough like he’d been gargling with sandpaper, and Dean didn’t need telling twice, didn’t want to fuck Sam up more by moving him, but he knew someone must have called 911, and they needed to _go_.  
  
“Come on,” he said, hauling Sam to his feet and trying to ignore how much of Sam’s weight was hanging off him ( _he’s gonna be fine, it’ll be fine_ ). The records office was on the ground floor, thank Christ, and someone asked him a question that he didn’t really hear, but Dean just snarled and apparently his scary-son-of-a-bitch act was still working, because they made it outside without anyone trying to stop them.  
  
Dean had his phone out and was dialling before the Impala had even left the parking lot. Dad answered in two rings, and Dean had time to say _Sam had a_ before Sam jerked forward in shotgun like someone had punched him in the stomach, hand fisted in his hair, and Dean cursed and pulled over.  
  
There was more blood this time ( _Jesus oh Jesus_ ) and Sam was barely conscious afterwards, eyes glazed and mouth hanging open, and since when had Sam had two visions in the space of ten minutes, since _when_? ( _And how many more could he handle before his brain leaked out of his ears, how many more before they killed him?_ ) Dean leaned over to shotgun, straightening Sam’s limbs and reaching for his face ( _don’t touch him might break_ ), tilting his head up and trying to look into his eyes, but they just rolled up, and blood ran from Sam’s nose down over Dean’s fingers and fuck. _Fuck._  
  
Dean must have lost track of time, because suddenly Dad was there, opening the passenger door and bending over, hands on his knees, trying to see Sam’s face.  
  
“Bad one,” he said, and yeah, yeah you could say that.  
  
Dad got down on his knees, took hold of Sam’s chin, fingers barely brushing the skin, but enough to turn Sam’s face towards him.  
  
“You in there, kiddo?” he asked, and Dean slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. _I’m gone_ , that was what Sam had said. But Sam wasn’t gone. At least not yet.  
  
“Hey,” said Dad, and Dean opened his eyes to find Dad watching him, hand still on Sam’s face. “We’re not gonna lose him,” said Dad. “Not again, Dean. We’ll find a way to fix this.”  
  
 _Before or after we find the thing that killed Mom?_ Dean thought, and he didn’t say it out loud, because how could he, how could he make Dad choose between Sam’s pain and Mom’s death? Except that maybe it wasn’t a case of _before or after we find it_ ; maybe it was _before or after Sam dies_.  
  
\----  
  
She’s across the room before the door’s fully open, kneeling beside Sam’s bed and oh Christ, he hasn’t had one this bad since Saginaw and she wasn’t there, she wasn’t _there_. Sam looks half-alive, eyes closed and mouth open, like he did on the slab in St. Louis ( _that wasn’t him it wasn’t him_ ), skin so pale that his eyelids look blue.  
  
“Oh, baby,” she whispers, running the backs of her fingers down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone.”  
  
“He wasn’t alone,” says Dean, and she looks round, sees him hunched over in a chair, elbows on his knees, hands dangling loose like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “He wasn’t alone,” he says again, and this isn’t what she’s here for, she doesn’t want to argue with Dean ( _doesn’t want to hurt Dean_ ), she just wants to look after Sam, so she nods.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you were looking out for him.”  
  
Dean’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes slide past her to Sam, to his brother. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and she looks away.  
  
“We need to figure out why it was so bad this time,” John says, and she turns to see him standing in the doorway, eyes in shadow. “There’s got to be a pattern.”  
  
“And the demon?” she asks, even though she knows she should shut up, John wants to focus on helping Sam and she should just go with it, just let it go, but there’s bitterness rankling and she’s been trying to figure it out for _so long_ and now Sam’s unconscious ( _again_ ), blood caked around his nostrils, and she just wants to kick something, some _one_ , wants to beat someone until they cry for mercy and promise to take it all back.  
  
John shakes his head, opens his mouth, and she thinks it’s even odds which he’ll choose, his son or his revenge, but then Sam shifts slightly under her hand and says “It’s tonight,” and whatever John was going to say, she’ll never find out.  
  
Sam’s eyes are still closed, but his face is tighter now, mouth pursed in pain like it wasn’t before, and he’s awake. Dean’s kneeling beside her, almost before she’s registered Sam speaking, and she rests her fingertips on Sam’s cheek and shuffles sideways a little to give Dean access. She’s done fighting with Winchesters over Sam. And then again, that’s not true; but she’s done fighting with _Dean_ over Sam.  
  
“Hey,” says Dean, hands splayed on the edge of the bed, near Sam but not touching. “Sammy, how you feeling?”  
  
Sam opens his eyes a crack, then closes them again. His fingers flutter a little, and she reaches her free hand down to touch them, squeeze a little. “It’s OK, he’s real,” she whispers, and turns her face away from Dean so she doesn’t have to see, but she knows anyway, knows how she would feel if Sam needed her but didn’t trust her, has felt that way enough times in the past few months to teach a class on it, God.  
  
“Tonight, it’s going to… it’ll be here tonight,” says Sam, and John’s standing on the other side of the bed, now, and he’s so damn _tall_ , it feels like sitting at the bottom of a cliff.  
  
“The demon?” he asks, and she pulls back, she’s halfway to her feet, ready to scream, because _fuck_ the demon, fuck all this, the damn thing can kill everyone in this town for all she cares, and she knows that makes her selfish, maybe makes her a monster, but she’s past caring about her own soul when Sam’s got something inside his head that makes him scream and bleed. She’s opening her mouth, and it’s been a long time, she feels like she’s barely spoken to John in months, been so focussed on understanding Sam that she hasn’t had time to _feel_ , but she feels now, and John’s going to know about it. Except there are fingers catching at her wrist, weak but determined, and she looks down to see Sam’s eyes open again, half-mast but alert.  
  
“I know,” he whispers. “He cares, Jess. But it’ll kill her. That’s what h-- happened to us, to, to Mom and--. I don’t want.” He closes his eyes again and his nostrils flare, and she lowers herself back to her knees, slipping his fingers from her wrist and wrapping them in her hand. “I don’t want the little girl to grow up like us,” says Sam, so quietly that she’s pretty sure John doesn’t hear it. Dean leans forward, though, and she knows he’s heard, he’s understood what Sam means in a way that she never can.  
  
“OK,” says Dean. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, Sammy. And then we’ll get you help.” He looks up at John, and for all Dean is John’s right-hand man, for all he jumps to every time John raises an eyebrow, she thinks that he’ll stand with her on this one.  
  
John looks back at his son and then nods. “Then that’s the plan,” he says. “Sam, do you know where—"  
  
And then his phone rings, and after that, everything changes.  
  
\----  
  
The mud was churned up like fuck, the Impala’s traction shot to hell, and Dean could really do without more crap making this day even worse than it already was, because, you know, Pastor Jim being dead and Caleb being dead and Dad walking into a trap with a forged gun and visions nearly _killing_ his little brother, Jesus, Dean figured that was enough shit for one twenty-four-hour period. Apparently, though, someone upstairs (or more likely someone downstairs, because Dean figured if anyone was running his life, it was some son-of-a-bitch demon) didn’t agree, and by the time Dean hit the rendezvous point, he knew the Impala was going to need some serious cleaning when this was through.  
  
“I’ll fix it, baby,” he muttered, patting the steering wheel. “When this is over, I’m gonna fix everything.”  
  
 _When this is over_. Jesus. Dean saw the light in Dad’s eyes, he knew Dad thought maybe this _could_ be over, almost twenty-three years of looking and the damn thing was going to be right here, tonight. Dean didn’t believe it, though, _couldn’t_ believe it, because he tried to imagine a life without Dad’s search thrumming behind every move he took, and he just couldn’t. And then, even if they did kill the thing tonight ( _Jesus, maybe they could kill it_ tonight), it wasn’t going to be over, not until Sam could walk down the street without practically bleeding out through the nose for no medically plausible reason.  
  
Christ.  
  
“You get it?” Dad asked, and Dean pulled the fake Colt out from under his coat and stared at it.  
  
“You think they’ll be able to tell?” he asked. _Don’t go, Dad, Jesus._  
  
Dad took the gun and considered it, then turned to the truck. Sam was in the backseat, head lolling back, window open. He was too sick to be moved, that was pretty fucking obvious, but none of them were willing to leave him and Jessica alone, not with the demon in town, so here he was, looking like, well, kinda like someone who’d had two brain-crippling visions in the last twelve hours.  
  
“Will they be able to tell the difference?” Dad asked, and Sam opened his eyes and didn’t even look at the guns.  
  
“They can’t read your mind,” he said. “Not really. They just skim thoughts off the, off the top. I’m gone.”  
  
Dad nodded. “Then if I think that it’s real loud enough, they’ll think that too,” he said, and Sam’s face twitched and Dean wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure that was what Sam meant, but it was _Sam_ , maybe he butted heads with Dad sometimes (right, understatement of the century there, Dean) but no way he’d send Dad out there if he knew it wasn’t safe. Except for how trying to trick a demon when you’ve got no back-up was about as safe as kicking a tiger in the jewels, but Dean wasn’t going to think about that. Dad knew what he was doing.   
  
“OK,” Dad said, handing the real Colt over to Dean. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this fight, and now—" He swallowed, glancing back at the truck, at Sam and Jessica. “Everything’s different, now,” he said. “You finish this, Dean. You finish what I started, and then we’ll find a way to fix your brother. You understand?”  
  
Dean did understand. They needed to kill the son of a bitch that killed Mom, Jesus, of course they did, but more than that, they needed this crap to be _over_ , they needed to be safe so they could have time to help Sammy, so that they wouldn’t lose anyone else to this fight. Yeah, Dean understood, all right.  
  
Dad opened the door of the truck and caught Sam before he fell out, easing Sam’s arm around his shoulders. Dean jumped forward to take the other side, and between them they half-dragged, half-carried Sam to the Impala, Jessica trailing behind them. Dean opened the back door, but before he could start installing Sam in there, Sam pulled away from him, getting his feet under him and turning toward Dad, wrapping his arms around him. Dad’s eyebrows went up about as fast as Dean’s, but his arms came around Sam’s back without hesitation, and Sam held on for just a moment before letting go.  
  
“It’s going to be different this time,” Sam said. “I’ll make it different.”  
  
Dad frowned, and Dean felt the sour worry in the pit of his stomach get thicker, but Sam just staggered two steps back and collapsed into the back seat of the Impala.  
  
“Sammy?” said Dean ( _tell me it’ll be OK tell me Dad’ll be OK_ ).  
  
Sam nodded, closing his eyes. “I’ll make it different,” he said.  
  
And OK, yeah, all he had to go on was Sam’s freakish ramblings, and Sam was _crazy_ , but Dean figured they were all pretty damn crazy by now, and he was totally planning on coming up with a way of justifying hugging Dad, except he didn’t need to, because then Dad was hugging _him_ , and Dean took a second to just feel how solid Dad was ( _he’ll be OK he knows what he’s doing he’s_ Dad) and then it was gone, and Dad was hugging Jessica, who looked kinda like she’d been jumped by a bear and didn’t know whether to fight or play dead for a second, and then hugged back.  
  
And yeah, OK, this was kind of surreal.  
  
“Take care,” said Dad, letting go of Jessica and turning away. “I’ll see you soon.” He stopped halfway back to the truck, looked back, and Dean knew what was going to come out of his mouth before he even opened, could have freakin mouthed the words along with him.  
  
“Look out for Sammy,” said Dad.  
  
“I will,” said Dean.  
  
\----  
  
It’s hot, too hot, even for an August night in the Midwest, and she slides down the seat a little, feeling the leather stick to the bare skin of her shoulders. The heat presses in on her, like it’s trying to force its way through her skin, like there’s too much of it to fit in the car, and she doesn’t know when she came to associate heat like this with thick foreboding, she’s a California girl, for God’s sake, but now she’s sitting outside a house where Sam says a demon’s going to try and kill someone tonight, and the heat just seems to make it all worse.  
  
“They can’t read your mind,” Sam says from the back seat, slurring slightly, and she wonders if he’s even awake, he’s been out of it all day, ever since his psychic powers tried to kill him.  
  
“Got it,” says Dean. “Any other pearls of wisdom?”  
  
Sam shifts a little, but then the lights in the house flicker, and Dean’s bolting up in his seat.  
  
“Showtime,” he says, and opens the car door. “You know what to do?”  
  
She nods. She’s got a gun, not the Colt, but enough to knock anything that comes at them back long enough to start the car and get the hell out of there. She’s got a knife, too, silver, and another one of iron, she’s got holy water and three exorcisms and the name of God. If anything comes after them ( _after Sam_ ), she’s ready.  
  
“OK,” says Dean, and gets out of the car. He looks like maybe he’s planning to say something else, but then the lights flicker again, and he’s running across the front lawn, and there’s a _demon_ in the house, Jesus, and even if she had all the holy water in the world and three priests in the back seat, she wouldn’t feel safe.  
  
“I’m gone,” says Sam. “You, Jess, you need to remember that. I’m gone.”  
  
She turns around, sees Sam’s eyes glinting in the orange light of the streetlamps. “You’re not gone, baby,” she says. “You’re right here.” Sam’s been here the whole time.  
  
Sam shakes his head, then winces, and leans forward, eyes huge in the dim light, staring like he’s trying to force his way into her head. “You think it,” he says. “You think I’m gone.”  
  
It comes to her without her being able to stop it ( _Sam’s been gone three hundred and three days_ ), and she pushes the thought away ( _Sam’s right here, he’s right_ here), but Sam slumps back and nods, and she wonders, wonders if he heard.   
  
“You need to help Dean,” he says. And then, suddenly, he’s frantic, pitching forward, fingers scrabbling against the leather seat-back, pulling at her wrist. “God, Jess, please, he needs you, you have to help him, please.”  
  
She’s startled, and fear is acid at the back of her throat, and she looks up at the window and oh God, is that _fire_?  
  
“Help him,” Sam moans, and she’s torn, because if she goes to help Dean then Sam will be unprotected, and how can she help Dean anyway, she can handle a gun and a knife, most of the time, but if Dean can’t handle it, there’s no way that she can—  
  
“Help him,” says Sam again, fingers tightening painfully around her wrist. “Don’t let him die.”  
  
And that’s all she needs really, because Dean can’t die, Sam needs him ( _she needs him_ ), and she grabs the spare gun out of the glove box and presses it into Sam’s hand.  
  
“Don’t open the door,” she says. “Not until I tell you it’s OK. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust Dean.” And it feels like a betrayal to say it, but she can’t risk it, not with Sam seeing a Dean who doesn’t exist, not with things out there that know exactly how to get to Sam.  
  
Sam’s fingers close around the gun, and he nods. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It can be OK. I can make it OK. I love you.”  
  
And then she’s running too, and there’s a gun-shot from the house, and the door’s standing open and the smell of smoke is so strong even downstairs that she claps a hand over her mouth and oh, God, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, the house is on _fire_ and there’s a demon here somewhere and she’s just a college girl from California with a flask of holy water and a stomach full of terror.  
  
There’s screaming from somewhere upstairs, and she heads that way, stumbling a little on the fifth step, and then there’s a room to the left and that’s where the smoke’s coming from, and then Dean bursts out of it with a baby in his arms, dragging a woman by the wrist, and he sees her and his eyes go wide, but then he’s thrusting the baby at her and turning without even looking, his fingers tight around the Colt, and she reaches for him blindly, smoke stinging her eyes and one arm wrapped around the baby.  
  
“Don’t go back in,” she says. “Dean, no. It’s suicide.” She’s around the corner, a little to the left of the doorway, and she can feel the heat pouring out, the air scorching her lungs, and Sam was scared, Sam was _terrified_.  
  
“The demon,” says Dean, and she pulls on his arm, locks her fingers around his wrist.  
  
“Fuck the demon,” she says. “You’re no good to Sam dead.” _You’re no good to any of us dead._  
  
And then Dean’s moving, they’re all moving, it’s all a blur of heat and shadows and the baby crying against her shoulder and concentrating on not falling down the stairs and not breathing too deep, and there’s a man now, too, Dean’s growling something, but she ignores him, ignores them all, she’s focussed on getting the baby out the door, because there’s a life in her arms and twenty-three years ago this was Sam.  
  
And then she’s outside, they’re all outside, coughing smoke and soot, and the sluggish air feels like cool sea breezes against her skin, they’re out, they survived, everyone made it, and she turns to Dean, knows her face is slack with relief, and he’s staring past her, eyes huge with horror.  
  
“What?” she says, and turns to look, and then she knows, she _knows_ , and the relief drains away in a heartbeat.  
  
The Impala’s gone.  
  
\----  
  
The woman – she doesn’t even know her name, she carried her child out of the fire and she doesn’t know the woman’s _name_ \-- can’t give them her car keys fast enough, even with her husband standing by looking like he’d like to be calling the police right now, and Dean tears away from the kerb so fast that she can almost feel the tyres losing rubber, but they’re only guessing, they don’t know which way the Impala went, who took it ( _what took it_ ), where it might go ( _whether Sam’s still inside_ ), and Dean takes them in a grid search, street by street, fingers so tight on the wheel that she’s surprised they don’t break, she’s surprised her own fingers aren’t breaking, twisted in her lap, and oh God, she left Sam alone ( _you need to help Dean_ ) and now he’s _gone_ , and this is worse than the time ( _times_ ) she left the not-Dean alone with Sam, worse than the time she shot John in the asylum, this might be the worst thing that’s happened since she woke up in October and found herself alone in her bed. Sam’s _gone_.  
  
Dean’s phone rings when they’re halfway across town from the house where the demon was, and he grabs it up and says _Dad?_ , and a moment later he’s pulling over and she’s thinking this day can’t get any worse, but she should know better by now, better than to even _think_ it.  
  
“Where is he?” asks Dean, voice breaking on the third word, and his nostrils are flared, mouth drawn tight and turned down at the corners, and what, Oh God, what now?  
  
And then he’s closing the phone and turning to her, and he looks like he’s fraying, like any minute now he’s going to snap, and he says _they got Dad_ , and she feels her mouth drop open, because she thought John was being reckless, rushing into an obvious trap, but she never believed, _never_ imagined that something, anything could take down John Winchester.  
  
And then Dean’s eyes slip off her face, and he’s staring at something, and then he’s out of the car and running, and she doesn’t even think, doesn’t hesitate before following him ( _he’s all she’s got now_ ), stretching her legs to keep up, and she sees it too, the black car gleaming dully under a streetlamp, _Sam Sam Sam please_ , and then she’s skidding to a stop beside Dean and the car’s empty, oh God, it’s _empty_ , and Dean’s slamming the door and whirling round, yelling Sam’s name into the night like he’s just hiding, like maybe he just thought it was all a game. There’s a torn-off piece of paper under the windshield wiper, and she reaches for it, pulls it out, fingers trembling. There are dark splotches on it that she doesn’t want to think about, and four words in Sam’s neat handwriting, the letters only slightly distorted.  
  
 _I’m OK_ , it says. _Help Dad._  
  
She stares at it, wills it to tell her more, but that’s all there is. _Help Dad_. How can they help John? John’s _gone_.   
  
“Fuck,” says Dean, and turns back to the car, rests his hands on the hood like if it wasn’t there he would fall over. “Sam’s gone,” he says, and she nods, because what else can she do? Sam’s been gone three hundred and three days.  
  
Sam’s gone.


	20. Chapter 20

  
“Fuck,” says Dean again, then slams his hand against the hood of the car, once, twice, hard enough that she’s sure he’s going to have a bruise. “Dammit,” he says. “ _Dammit_.” He punches the air and kicks the tyre, then whirls and takes two steps away from the car. “Sammy!” he yells. “Sam!”  
  
There’s nausea rolling in her stomach, and she thinks maybe she might not make it if she tries to walk, but Dean’s losing it and she needs him not to do that right now, she needs him to be thinking straight because John’s been taken and Sam’s gone ( _Sam’s been gone three hundred and three days_ ) and Dean’s all she has, Dean needs to fix this mess, so she takes three steps over and touches his arm, holding out the note.  
  
“He’s OK,” she says, and the words taste like a lie on her tongue, but she needs them to be true, Sam’s got to be OK ( _Sam’s gone_ ), because otherwise they’re all screwed; she’s seen what happens to this family when it loses a member, and she’s close enough now that she knows she won’t escape the fallout.  
  
“What?” says Dean, lips barely moving, and she presses the note into his palm, leaves her fingers there for a second because for some reason she doesn’t want to let go of it ( _it’s not the last of him, we’ll find him, he’s OK_ ), then pulls away. Dean stares down, and the scrap of paper looks tiny in his hand, four words and blood and _Sam_. He stares long enough that he must have read the thing twenty times, and then he closes his fist, and she bites back a cry at watching the paper crumple, because it’s just a fucking _note_ , God, it’s not Sam.  
  
“He knew,” Dean says. “He _knew_ , Christ, he knew Dad was gone and he did this to us _again_.” The hand with the note in it tightens until the knuckles look like they’re ready to burst through the skin, and she takes a step back, because she’s learned to stand her ground with Winchesters, but she’s also learned that Dean doesn’t always pay attention to where his fists are going.  
  
“He’s trying to help,” she says, and that’s not a lie, she knows that’s true; Sam’s trying to help, but Sam’s only half-sane on a good day, and now he’s out there by himself. “He knows more about this than we do.”  
  
“Then why the _fuck_ didn’t he just fucking _tell_ us instead of running off to play hero?” asks Dean, and by the end he’s shouting, looking out into the darkness like somehow Sam can hear him. But Sam’s gone, and he wants them to help John, and for all everything in her wants to give up on John and look for the man she’s built her whole fucking life around for the last ten months, for all she _knows_ that Sam’s been manipulating her ( _because she never would have left him alone in the car if he hadn’t begged her to help Dean_ ), she knows too that Sam’s secretive brain can see the puzzle where she can only see the pieces, she knows that she has to let herself be manipulated if she wants them all to get out of this. But she swears to God that she’s never going to let Sam do this to her again.  
  
“We need to find your dad,” she says, and swallows down the acrid taste at the back of her mouth, because that’s what Sam wants, he wants them to help John, and if that’s how she can help Sam ( _help everyone_ ) then that’s what she’ll do.  
  
Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand over his mouth and chin. “This is fucked up,” he says. “This is _fucked_.”  
  
“I know,” she says. “I know, Dean. But we need to find your dad.”  
  
Dean closes his eyes, then opens them and looks at her. “OK,” he says. “OK. But we’re gonna need some help.”  
  
\----  
  
Bobby Singer is taller than she expected; in fact, he’s nothing like she expected at all, and she doesn’t know why she thought he’d be wizened and stooped and have half-moon glasses, except that he’s apparently the most respected demon expert in North America, and that seems like it should be a title for retired professors, not redneck scrap-metal dealers. And then again, Sam, her Sam who’s always trying to hide how tall he is, who looks more at home in a library than he does at a party, Sam’s been proficient with knives and guns and Latin since before he hit puberty, Sam was fighting monsters when her own parents were trying to convince her that they didn’t exist, and she should have learned by now that appearances mean nothing at all.  
  
“This Jessica?” Bobby asks, and they’ve never spoken before, but she’s listened to enough one-sided conversations, Dean relaying details she passes to him down the phone, that she feels like Bobby’s almost a mythical figure, the man on the other end of the phone who _knows_.  
  
“It’s good to finally meet you,” she says, and holds out her hand. She means it, too, as far as anything can be _good_ right now.  
  
“Likewise,” says Bobby, and shakes her hand, then pushes back the brim of his trucker hat. His face is half-covered in hair, but his eyes bore into her like he can see a lot more than she’s telling. He only looks for a second, though, then turns back to Dean.  
  
“Sam?” he asks, and Dean swallows and shakes his head.  
  
“He’s taken off again,” he says. “Got some cr-- stupid idea in his head, I don’t know.”   
  
Bobby barely reacts, mouth turning down slightly at the corners, but Dean shakes his head again like Bobby threw a fit. “That’s not the worst of it,” he says. “They got Dad, Bobby. They wanted the Colt, and they got Dad.”  
  
Bobby stares at Dean for a moment, then sighs and glances back at the house that’s sagging behind him, clapboard walls grey and bleached under the white sky.  
  
“They’ll be coming after you, then,” he says, and there’s no reproach in his voice, no _you shouldn’t have come here, you shouldn’t have brought this down on my head_ , just certainty and mild irritation.  
  
“Pretty much,” says Dean, shoulders hunched like he’s freezing.  
  
Bobby nods. “You better come in,” he says.  
  
\----  
  
Bobby’s house smelled like it always did – like gloom and dusty books and _safe_. Maybe that was why Sam always got on with libraries like a freakin house on fire – they reminded him of being at Bobby’s. Except Sam wasn’t here now, Sam had decided they were better off without him ( _again_ ), and fuck Sam anyway, fuck him and his stupid grandstanding and his heroics.   
  
Bobby’s coffee was the same as always, too, thick and black and so strong Dean wondered if they shouldn’t maybe make it with holy water, figured they could probably kill a few demons just by inviting them over for book group or whatever. He was freakin glad of it, though, because he’d been driving for hours and Sam and Dad had been gone for longer, and Dean was so fucked, so fucking _screwed_ , he’d thought they were getting somewhere and now all he had to show for his life was an antique revolver and an ex-cheerleader who he couldn’t even screw because she belonged to Sam.  
  
“We’re going to find them,” said Jessica, and Dean felt himself start, guilt thick in his throat, and he didn’t know why the hell he should feel guilty about thinking that way, but he wished he’d never had the thought, wished he could clean the dirt of it off his mind.  
  
“They’re gonna find us,” he said, and she swallowed, he didn’t need to tell her who _they_ were, she knew what he meant, always fucking did, figured Dean would find himself stuck with two Stanford geeks instead of one ( _except for how only one of them was left now_ ). He opened his mouth to say something else, but then Rumsfeld set up barking outside like there was a freakin army of mailmen on the way, and Dean knew it was time.  
  
\----  
  
The door blows in like matchwood, splinters scattering across the floor and she takes a step back, Bobby stepping in front of her. There’s a woman standing in the doorway, short and blonde, face twisted in a sneer.  
  
“Howdy, Dean,” she says. “You never called.”  
  
Dean’s standing stock still in the middle of the room, and she sees his shoulders tense in surprise. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re just not my type. I don’t screw bitches from Hell.”  
  
He’s met the demon before, and she pushes her thoughts faster, tries to remember if the face is familiar, but she’s drawing a blank.   
  
“Not like you to be so picky,” says the demon, and raises a hand, and Dean’s body jerks backwards like someone’s pulling a string, slams against a bookcase so hard the cheap plywood splinters and books crash all over the floor. She hears Bobby suck his teeth in annoyance, and then the demon-woman is striding forward, hand raised again. She stops when Dean starts laughing, though.   
  
“Care to share the joke with the class?” she says, and Dean’s head tilts up, dust and fragments of wood slipping out of his hair. The demon follows his gaze, and snarls.  
  
“Amazing how often that damn thing comes in handy,” Bobby mutters, flicking a glance up at the huge symbol painted on the ceiling. He glances back at her and twitches an eyebrow, then looks over at the demon, who’s spitting curses at Dean. “We’re gonna need more coffee,” he says.  
  
\----  
  
“Chicago,” says Dean, and she frowns and tries to remember. Chicago had been the hunt with the mutilated victims, the one they never finished because Sam threw a fit and didn’t stop yelling until they were safely past the city limits. Chicago had been just before the second time she left Sam alone with the not-Dean, when he’d called and said John had been attacked by—  
  
“The girl from the bar,” she whispers, and she’d assumed, she’d just assumed the not-Dean had picked a random girl to spin his tales, hadn’t thought to look into it and see if she really was a—  
  
“Meg,” says Dean, and scowls. “Sam had us out of that city soon as I mentioned her name the first time. He must’ve—" He shakes his head, hands flexing. “Why didn’t he _tell_ us,” he mutters.  
  
She thinks about what would have happened in Chicago if Sam had told them that the girl – Meg – was a demon. Thinks about how there’s no way John would have left without confronting her. Maybe he would’ve won; and then again, Sam can see the future, sometimes, and he got them as far away from Meg as he could.   
  
“Ain’t no time for _what if_ around here, son,” says Bobby, slapping a book down on the table. “That hellspawn in there knows where your daddy’s at. Hope your Latin ain’t too rusty.”  
  
Dean grabs the book and nods.  
  
“We got work to do,” he says.  
  
\----  
  
The demon lifts its head when they come in, eyes wide, the sneer still painted on its face like it doesn’t know how to make any other expression. This thing was in a bar with Dean, flirted with him, and her stomach turns over thinking about how close they came, how desperate Sam was to get them away, and did that mean they were in danger of losing Dean as well?  
  
But _what if_ isn’t her territory, she doesn’t see the _what if_ , not the way Sam does, and she takes a moment to close her eyes and be grateful, because if second-guessing is this terrifying then how much worse must second- _knowing_ be?  
  
“Where’s my Dad?” says Dean, and he’s smiling, but it’s not a smile she ever wants to see directed at her.  
  
The demon cocks its head, confident even now, and she thinks that’s how Dean would be, if he was trapped and threatened, then pushes the thought out of her mind because this thing is a demon and Dean is _Dean_. “He’s dead,” it says.  
  
Dean’s smile is gone like it was never there, lips pressed together. “You’re lying,” he says, and she remembers the mantra, _demons lie_ , and then she remembers another one, remembers Sam saying _they can’t read your mind, not really_ , and Jesus, did Sam know they would end up here?  
  
The demon smiles. “He screamed for you, Dean,” it says. “Screamed as I tore him apart. But don’t worry, you’ll be seeing him soon.”  
  
“Shut up,” says Dean, pulling Bobby’s book out of his pocket. He flips it open and starts to read. “ _Regna terrae, cantate Deo…_ ”  
  
“Aw, had to finally learn Latin, huh?” the demon says, eyes stretching wide. “And there was me thinking you’d at least hold out until you were sure little Sammy was dead.”  
  
Dean stutters to a halt and stares, and she takes a step forward, she’s been hovering in the shadows but ( _demons lie demons lie_ ) she needs to hear this.  
  
“What are you talking about?” says Dean, and the demon’s smile sharpens, then it flicks its eyes to her.  
  
“Well, if it isn’t little Sammy’s little girlfriend,” it says, tongue flicking out over its lips. “You should have stayed in California, honey. Sammy’s never coming back for you.”  
  
“Sam’s not dead,” she says, and she can hear the tremble in her own voice loud and clear, the demon smiling wide.  
  
“He never could take care of himself,” it says, and its eyes move back to Dean. “You never let him learn, coddled him his whole life and then just let him go off on his own. No wonder he’s dead.”  
  
“You’re a lying bitch,” says Dean, and she wants to say it too, demons lie, Christ, but Sam’s gone, he’s gone _again_ , and what if, what _if_ , and she feels sweat break out on her palms, fear thrumming in her stomach that this might have all been for nothing.  
  
“Exorcizamus te,” says Dean, mouth hard on the foreign syllables, “omnis immundus spiritus--"  
  
The demon jerks and groans in the chair, fingers twitching, but then it chokes out a laugh.  
  
“He burned,” it says. “Little Sammy burned to death after all. And he’s burning now, with daddy in Hell.”  
  
“Shut up,” she says, she doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to think of the way the heat bruised her skin in the house in Salvation and what that might be like, to die that way, doesn’t want to remember a burned-out car in the ruins of a house in Jericho and what it was like to wake up every day with ashes on her tongue and think that Sam was dead. She closes her eyes and listens to the harshness of Dean’s voice, and the Latin’s a shield between her and the demon, but it’s not thick enough.  
  
“Aw, does that hurt, honey?” the demon says, and she opens her eyes to find it staring straight at her, panting, mouth twisted in pain or something like it. “Not as much as it hurt him,” it says. “You should have heard him scream.”  
  
Dean stops chanting at that, fist clenched at his side. “She told you to shut the fuck up,” he says, voice rough with something that she doesn’t want to think about ( _it’s not fear, demons lie_ ), and the thing’s attention turns back to him.  
  
“Poor Dean,” it says. “All those years trying to keep him safe just to let him die back where it all started.” It grins, jerking against the rope at its wrists. “Right back where mommy fried. Should have just let him die when he was a squalling brat, maybe you could have made a life for yourself.”  
  
Dean blinks at that, and she can’t help blinking herself, tries to figure out how long it would take Sam to get from Salvation to Lawrence and why, _why_ he would go there. “What?” says Dean, and the demon laughs.  
  
“That’s right,” it says. “Sammy burned in the house in Lawrence. He’s been gone for months, but you just keep on trying to find him. It’d be touching if it wasn’t so pathetic.” It spits on the floor. “Good luck with the search, by the way. If you work hard enough, you should be able to scrape up enough of him to fill a memorial egg-cup.”  
  
Dean looks back at her, and she can barely see him, the edges of her vision are greying out, but she sees the way relief chases confusion across his face, can read it as easily as she feels the tangle of emotion in her own chest, _it doesn’t know, it doesn’t_ know. And then Dean’s chanting again and the demon’s shrieking, howling about how Sam’s skin blistered and cracked and John bled like a stuck pig, but Dean just keeps speaking, wind whipping through the house and the candles guttering and his voice rising to a shout. And then the demon throws its head back and screams, and black smoke billows out, rolling and thick, and the air tastes of grease and sulphur, and she puts her hands over her ears and prays.  
  
And then the smoke is gone and the demon’s head drops forward onto its chest, except it’s not a demon any more, it’s just a girl, just some poor girl who’s had evil living inside her skin for who knows how long, some poor girl who has a hole in her stomach that’s gushing with blood.  
  
“Jesus,” says Dean, and darts forward, and she moves too, helps him untie the girl and move her to the floor, trying not to jar her, and she looks for something to put under the girl’s head, looks for a phone to call an ambulance, but the girl opens her eyes and she knows it’s too late.  
  
“I was awake… for some of it,” the girl, breath rasping in her throat like it’s something solid. “Your dad’s in… Jefferson City. Sunrise Ap, Apartments.”  
  
“What about Sam?” says Dean, and the girl’s eyes roll towards him.  
  
“I don’t know... anything… about a Sam,” the girl says, and then her fingers curl weakly around Dean’s arm. “They want you to come,” she whispers. “They’ll be waiting.”  
  
Dean looks up, face set, and she knows that doesn’t matter.  
  
  
\----  
  
It’s nine hundred miles from Bobby’s place to Jefferson City, and neither of them have slept in over twenty-four hours, but there’s no time for any of that now, no time for food or preparation or anything except _let’s go, now_. Dean pushes the car the whole way, way past the speed limit and taking corners without slowing down, and she remembers how she used to shriek and laugh, back when she was in high school with some dumb jock in the driving seat showing off. She doesn’t feel any of that, now, that euphoria from _too fast too free never gonna die_ , and she wonders what happened to that girl.  
  
Fifty miles from Jefferson City, Dean’s taking a leak by the side of the road when his phone rings, and she reaches for it without thinking because it could be Sam. The name on the display says _Jim_ , though, and she frowns and puts it to her ear.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
There’s a pause, and then a man’s voice says, “Could I speak to Alice Cooper, please?”  
  
It’s a code, one she knows well enough, and she looks around, but Dean’s disappeared into the trees. “Alice is out for the summer,” she says, filling in the other half without even thinking. “Who’s calling?”  
  
“This is Jim Murphy,” says the voice, and something clicks in the back of her mind, but she doesn’t have time to examine it, because the man says, “I actually wanted to talk to Sam.”  
  
“Sam?” she says, and then the car door swings open with a creak and Dean drops into the seat and stares. She shakes her head and hands him the phone.  
  
“Jim Murphy,” she says, and as she says it she remembers John, dark and fraying at the side of the road in Iowa, _Jim Murphy’s dead_. If Jim Murphy’s dead, then who—  
  
“Who the hell is this?” says Dean, jaw squared like he’s expecting to do battle over the phone, and she wonders suddenly if it’s a demon, if they can possess the dead, reanimate them, and then she has a sudden image of Sam, skin charred and raw, leering at her from dead eyes ( _but he didn’t burn, the demon didn’t know_ ), and she has to fight down nausea.  
  
Dean’s listening, and then he says “What did he sound like?” and then “You’re sure it was him?” She watches him, trying to figure out what’s going on, but all she can hear of the other half of the conversation is a tinny rumbling. “We’re—" says Dean, then “No,” and then he shakes his head, lips pursed.   
  
“I can’t tell you,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know who I can trust.”  
  
There’s another pause filled with the muttering of a man who ought to be dead, scratching just at the bottom of her hearing, and then Dean looks at her.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “I got some backup.” He nods, and she sinks down a little in the seat, listens to him saying goodbye to – whoever it is. _Backup_ , and she doesn’t know whether she’s proud that she can be that for Dean or terrified that she’s going to fail. There’s no space for failure, not any more.  
  
Dean snaps the phone shut then turns to face the road, rolling his shoulders. “Well, that was freakin weird,” he says, and she sits up again.  
  
“Who was it?” she asks, and Dean frowns.  
  
“Sure as hell sounded like Pastor Jim,” he says. “Said Sam called him a couple of days ago, told him to get out of town for a while.” She frowns, because Sam doesn’t have a phone, but then she remembers him coming out of the bathroom with Dean’s phone in his hand, _only the sane people around here are allowed to operate electrical equipment_ , and the low muttering before that, when she thought he was talking to himself, and God, did Sam know even then? How long has he been planning this?  
  
Dean’s not finished though, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, never still. “Said he got back to his church and found the cops there and someone who looked just like him in the morgue with his throat slit,” he says, and she blinks, tries to take this in, understand it, but—  
  
“What—" she says, and then “How?”, and there’s something tickling at the back of her mind, but the lack of sleep’s catching up with her and she feels sluggish and dazed with all this new information. The demon killed this Jim Murphy, Christ, it even phoned John to taunt him about it, but why—  
  
Dean runs a hand over his face, rubs his eyes. “What do we know that can look like someone else and get killed without silver?” he asks, and she feels her stomach drop.  
  
“The angel,” she breathes, and Dean snorts.  
  
“Yeah, freakin angel,” he mutters. “Man, this is fucked up.”  
  
"But we killed it," she says. _You killed it._  
  
Dean shrugs. "Killed uglier things that that and had em come back before," he says.   
  
“What are we going to do?” she asks, and Dean takes a deep breath and settles back in his seat.  
  
“We’re gonna find Dad,” he says, and pulls out.  
  
\----  
  
Last time Dean was in Missouri, Sam was dead. That was a fucked-up thought, but it didn’t stop Dean from having it, because yeah, it wasn’t like Dean’s brain had ever been too good at staying away from the fucked-up thoughts. And once he’d had it, he was stuck with the damn thing, round and round and round, _Sam was dead_ , fucking _cremation_ and ashes in an urn and even if it had never been Sam in the first place, even though Dean _knew_ it had never been Sam and the ashes had been gone for months now, even if they were going to Jefferson City, not St. Louis, Dean still felt sick with worry. Which was actually fair enough, because Sam was fucking _missing_ ( _again_ ) and Dad had been kidnapped by _demons_ and they were in freakin _Missouri_ and fuck, _fuck_.  
  
Jessica cleared her throat. “We should stop,” she said. “We should park here and walk in, or they’ll get too much warning.”  
  
Dean glanced over, but she wasn’t looking at him. _Too much warning_ , Jesus. Dean just wanted to drive in there, slam the car through the front door of wherever they were keeping Dad and take out as many evil fuckers as he could, but no, no, no time to play hero right now, not with all that was left of Dean’s family hanging in the balance. He pulled over and swung the door open, heading round to the trunk and trying to think about holy water and rosaries and _weapons_ , not about Sam and Dad and what a demon could do to you if it had you prisoner for twenty-four hours.   
  
“Take this,” he said, tossing a gallon can of holy water to Jessica, and she caught it, rolled her shoulders.  
  
“Are we taking that?” she asked, and Dean looked down, realised it was in his hand.  
  
“It can kill them,” he said, and Jessica nodded.  
  
“OK,” she said.  
  
Dean looked at the Colt again, and God, they were walking into a freakin trap, he was taking Sam’s girlfriend, Jesus, not just Sam’s girlfriend, _Jessica_ into a goddamn trap and this wasn’t her fight, this wasn’t her family. “You should stay here,” he said, and her head snapped up.  
  
“What?” she said, then “Why?”  
  
“It’s too dangerous,” Dean said, and Jessica’s nostrils flared, and suddenly he remembered her attacking him back in the motel parking lot in Palo Alto, Jesus, months ago when they still had no idea what had happened to Sam, before he’d spent more time with Jessica than he’d spent with any woman since his mother died.  
  
“Like hell,” she said. “You try and leave me here, and I swear to God, I will scream my head off until all the demons in the world get here.”  
  
Dean wanted to laugh, but Jesus, she looked fucking serious, and he was pretty sure she’d do it, too. “It’s not Sam,” he said. “It’s Dad, not Sam.”  
  
Jessica stared back at him like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me,” she said, and Dean felt shame and worry warring in his belly, and decided not to examine that crap, because seriously, he had enough to think about right now, and he didn’t have time to argue, and anyway, he could always use backup.  
  
“Fine,” he said, holding out the Colt. “Then you take this.” Maybe Jessica wasn’t the world’s greatest shot, but Dean was damned if he was going to let her go into this thing without the best protection they had. He thought she would argue for a moment, but then she grabbed the gun and tucked it into the back of her jeans, lifting her shirt over it.  
  
“Ready?” he asked, and Jessica nodded.  
  
“Let’s go get your dad,” she said.  
  
\----  
  
The building was where the girl – Meg – had said it would be, right by the river, _Sunrise Apartments_ , and Dean figured the demons thought they were pretty damn clever, hiding right in the middle of a bunch of people who practically had “possess me” stamped on their freakin foreheads. Unlucky for them, Dean wasn’t exactly a slouch in the brains department himself, plus he had a pretty girl with him who could pull the fire alarm without anyone suspecting her and then sweet-talk the firemen while Dean broke into their truck and stole their gear. It was easy – almost too fucking easy, but Dean wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, not with Sam missing, not when he had to snatch Dad back from under the noses of a bunch of _demons_ for crying out loud, and the two of them were geared up and ready to go in under two minutes.  
  
“I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up,” said Dean when they were halfway along a landing, then clamped his jaw shut because that was dumb thing to say, Sam missing and Dad maybe possessed ( _maybe worse_ ) and he wanted to be a _fireman_ when he grew up? Jesus.   
  
“You’d have made a good one,” said Jessica, and he looked at her in surprise, but he couldn’t see her face under the alien mask or whatever those fucking things were that firemen wore over their faces. Dean had stopped wanting to be a fireman when he was eight years old, and he’d never got around to finding out what those things were called. He chewed his lip a little and checked the EMF, but nothing was going on.   
  
“Next floor,” he said, and Jessica nodded a little. The fire gear had to be hell on her – for all Dad’d made her train whenever they had time the last eight months or so, she was still thin, still a girl. Hell, less than a year ago she’d practically been homecoming queen, for Christ’s sake.  
  
“What’d you want to be?” he asked, and wondered why he’d said it, except he kinda just wanted to know, he’d been hanging around this chick for months, shared more with her than he’d ever shared with anyone who wasn’t family, and he didn’t even know what she wanted except that she wanted Sam.  
  
Jessica paused a second on the stairs, looked at him, but he still couldn’t really see her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “I wanted to make a difference.” She laughed, sharp even through the alien mask. “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”  
  
“You don’t think this is making a difference?” Dean asked, but either Jessica didn’t hear or she pretended not to. Either way, Dean kinda wished he hadn’t asked.  
  
“I wanted to marry him, you know,” said Jessica, and Dean stumbled over a step. OK, so it was kind of his fault, but this was a fucking _weird_ place to be having this conversation. And then again, it wasn’t like the two of them found themselves in many places that weren’t weird, so.  
  
“Yeah?” he said, not really sure how to respond, but wanting her to keep talking, suddenly just _wanting_ to hear about Sam, about her and Sam and what it was that’d made her come all this fucking way for a guy who never even told her the truth.   
  
“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t… _know_ , I mean. I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me, and sometimes that made me so mad, sometimes _he_ made me so mad, but. I would have been OK with it. I loved him so much.”  
  
Dean nodded, holding the EMF out but not really seeing it. _Loved_ , past tense. “I guess a lot of things have changed since then,” he muttered.  
  
Jessica was quiet for a moment. “Not everything,” she said.  
  
Dean opened his mouth, because damn, if there was ever a time for a smart-ass reply this was it, except then the EMF was going off, and he flicked his eyes at Jessica and hammered on the door.  
  
“This is the fire department,” he yelled. “We need you to evacuate.”  
  
\----  
  
John’s in the back room, on his back on the bed, and she’s not sure she’s ever been so glad to see him before, but she’s dousing him with holy water anyway. Dean glares at her, but Dean’s not exactly the best judge when it comes to his family, and she’s not about to take the risk that John’s possessed. He doesn’t hiss, though, just opens his eyes and mutters something, and he looks tired and old, like he did when Sam was dead. Dean hauls him off the bed and they head to the window, her first, then John, then Dean, clambering down the fire escape into the street, and she thinks they’re going to make it, thinks that maybe they’re going to get away with walking straight into a trap and getting out scot-free, except she’s only taken a few stumbling steps away from the building, John leaning heavily on her shoulder, when she hears Dean yell behind her and turns to see him crashing to the ground with a guy on top of him, a guy with black eyes oh God, and he’s punching Dean, smacking him in the face so hard she can hear the hurt from where she’s standing, and she doesn’t even think about it, just races forward trying to grab the guy around the throat, because demon or no demon she’s not going to let it hurt Dean. The thing is, though, _demon or no demon_ is all very well except when the thing you’re attacking actually _is_ a demon, and it barely shrugs but she finds herself flying through the air, landing hard on the ground, gravel scraping against her arm and hip. There’s no time to worry about grazes, though, because the thing’s still got Dean and John’s barely conscious and it’s up to her, God, up to _her_ to stop it, and she struggles to her feet, sees that it’s still punching Dean and he’s stopped struggling now, blood leaking from his nose and mouth, she needs to _stop it_ and she can only think of one way and her hand’s on the gun before she even really thinks about it, aiming carefully because she’s only got one shot and she’s not good at this, she’s not a natural like Dean, and then.  
  
And then the _crack_ is loud in her ears and her arm jerks with the recoil and the demon stiffens and topples to one side and she just, she just killed a man, a _real_ person and shit. _Shit_.  
  
But there’s no time, no _time_ , and she stumbles over to Dean and grabs his arm, hauls him up and thanks God that both he and John seem to more or less be able to walk on their own, glazed eyes and staggering maybe, but it’s good enough, because as much as she might want to she can’t carry them, can’t carry either of them. She keeps a hand on Dean, steers him in the right direction down the alley and doesn’t look back at the man she killed.  
  
 _I wanted to make a difference_ , that’s what she told Dean. This isn’t what she meant.  
  
\----  
  
The cabin has two rooms, and she’s glad of it, glad that John tells her to go and check that the windows are all salted, because it means she can be alone for a second, can collapse onto the bed in the back room and put her head in her hands. She killed someone, and she’s been training with the stupid guns for months, but that was to defend herself, that was to kill _ghosts_ , and maybe that still sounds a little ridiculous even after all this time, but better ridiculous than _murder_. She wonders what her parents would think, if they could see her now. Jessica Moore, golden child, valedictorian, college dropout, murderer.   
  
“Hey,” says a voice, and she looks up to see Dean in the doorway. His face is swollen purple and black, and she thinks about how once upon a time, she thought Dean was a thug who she wouldn’t like to meet in a dark alley. Now she thinks maybe _she’s_ the one they should be scared of.  
  
“Can you give me a minute?” she asks, but Dean hovers, doesn’t go away.  
  
“You saved my life,” he says. “You don’t have to be sorry about it.”  
  
“I’m not—" she says, because that’s not it, she’s not sorry for saving Dean, she’s sorry for— “I just, I didn’t know I could do that,” she says. “Everything’s just— I don’t know.”  
  
Dean comes in, sits down on a chair that looks like it’s about to collapse. She doesn’t stop him.  
  
“I’d do it,” he says. “If it’d been Dad or Sam. If it’d been you. I’d’ve done it in a heartbeat.”  
  
She blinks at him, and it’s weird, because she wants to be angry or scared, but she just feels a little bit safer. “Is that supposed to make it OK?”  
  
Dean laughs, but not like he thinks it’s funny, looks down. “No,” he says. “Just, I get it.”  
  
She looks at the floor, too, feels like she ought to give something up in return. “I’d do it again,” she says. “That’s what’s so bad. Even if I had time to think, I’d still do it again.”  
  
She looks up in time to see Dean nod. “I know,” he says, and she expects him to say something afterwards, something like _it’s OK_ or _it was the right thing to do_ , but instead he chews his lip for a minute and then says “Were you ever a cheerleader?”  
  
“What?” she says, and Dean looks surprised, like he didn’t actually mean to say that, then shakes himself a little and plasters a smirk onto his face.  
  
“You know, _cheerleader_ ,” he says. “Pom-poms, yelling, all that crap?”  
  
“Are you _hitting_ on me?” she asks, and Dean’s smirk spreads, turns into an actual smile.   
  
“What can I say?” he says. “Sammy may be a geek, but he’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”  
  
“Shut up,” she says, but she’s laughing, a little, and it feels like freedom. John’s OK, and now maybe Sam will come back, maybe this can be over, or this part of it at least. Dean flashes his teeth at her and stands up, heads for the door, but she knows he wasn’t hitting on her, knows the question was serious, and she doesn’t know why he wanted to know, but she wants to tell him, wants someone in her new life to have a piece of her old one, someone other than Sam.  
  
“I never was,” she says, and Dean turns, hand on the door handle. She snorts. “I hated football. All sports, really. Boo-ring,” she says, hitting the intonation just right, like she’s sixteen all over again.  
  
Dean’s smiling, not grinning now but _smiling_. “Sammy likes soccer,” he says, and she smiles back, feels this.  
  
“I know,” she says. “I used to watch him play sometimes.” That’s her Sam, and Dean’s Sam, too. That’s _Sam_.  
  
Dean nods, and then slips away, and she looks back at the floor, thinking. She killed a man today, killed him to save the life of a guy she’s been furious with more often than not over the last ten months.  
  
And she’d do it again.  
  
\----  
  
She’s not sure how long she sits there, but she gets to her feet when she hears Dean’s voice rising in the other room, makes sure the salt is thick at the windows and opens the door, opens her mouth to ask what’s going on and closes it again, fingers tightening around the doorknob, when she _sees_ , because John’s got his hands raised, face tight in a frown, and Dean’s _oh God_ pointing a gun at him, pointing the _Colt_ at him and she doesn’t know what’s happening but she’s not _safe_ any more.  
  
“What?” she says, and Dean lifts the gun a little.  
  
“He’s possessed,” he says, and John sighs.  
  
“We don’t have time for this, Dean,” he says. “We need to find your brother.”  
  
“You’re not my Dad,” says Dean.  
  
“Jessica, help me out here,” says John, but she’s not listening, fear curling in her belly and she thought the holy water would do it but Dean knows, Dean _knows_ his father, she trusts Dean more than she trusts anyone in the world right now, and she forces herself to walk without staggering, goes to stand behind Dean.   
  
“You’re not John,” she says, and John’s face turns down at the edges.  
  
“Fine,” he says. “You’re both so sure? Go ahead. Kill me.” He drops his head, he looks so _tired_ , and she knows Dean won’t do it, knows that she probably wouldn’t either, because John’s still in there even if he’s not alone. Dean swallows hard and lowers the gun, and then they’re really screwed, because John lifts his head and his eyes are _yellow_ and then she’s flying through the air, smacking against the boards of the wall so hard that she can’t breathe for a moment or two, she’s closed her eyes without even noticing, and now she opens them to see Dean pinned up against the wall opposite, _pinned_ like something’s pressing against him, head tipped back, cords standing out in his neck, but there’s nothing _there_ , nothing in the space between them but the Colt, lying in the dust of the floor like it didn’t cause all of this.   
  
“What are you?” she says, and tries to turn her head to look at John – not John, not John just like Dean wasn’t Dean in Massachusetts, just like Sam wasn’t Sam in St. Louis, and she’s getting so tired of this, so tired of being tricked by her own senses. She strains her neck muscles, but something she can’t see is pressing against her cheek, against her skull, and a moment later John ( _not John, not_ John) steps into view, bends down to pick up the Colt, moving slowly, but not like he’s hurt, like he’s savouring the moment.  
  
“Quite a question, coming from you,” not-John says, and curls his fingers around the gun. It looks like a toy in his hand, and she wonders if he’s going to kill them with it. That doesn’t make sense, though – the gun can kill _anything_ , and wasting bullets on a couple of humans when you’ve got the power this thing’s got would be ridiculous. The thought doesn’t make her feel any safer.  
  
“What a pain in the ass this thing’s been,” not-John says, looking down at the gun in his hands almost regretfully, and she remembers the way Sam stared at it when John first brought it back from Colorado, like it was a snake, like it was the end of the world. He knew even then, and she wonders if what’s happening now is what he was trying to stop, or if it would have been worse, if it _could_ have been worse. Not-John’s eyes flick up to her face, yellow like pond-slime or sulphur, and he licks his teeth and grins.  
  
“Should have stayed in California, little girl,” he says. “Sammy’s dead, and John’s mine now, and this one?” He gestures towards Dean without looking round. “He’s not worth it.”  
  
She grits her teeth ( _Sammy’s dead_ ) and doesn’t look away, because if all she can move is her eyes, then she’s damn well gonna make that count. Not-John just grins like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, then turns to Dean. “Daddy says hi, by the way,” he says. “He’s looking forward to killing you. In fact,” not-John steps closer to Dean, leans in, but speaks loud enough so that she can still hear him, “I bet you’re looking forward to it, too, aren’t you? Always doing your best to play the martyr for your family. And when John’s done shredding the flesh from your bones, you’ll get to be with little Sammy for ever, just like you’ve always wanted.”  
  
“Sam’s not dead,” says Dean, and his eyes flick up, away from not-John and over to her, just for a second. “I don’t believe it.”  
  
Not-John laughs, deep and throaty, and it’s happier than John’s laugh has ever been, deep and convivial and it sounds like long winter evenings by the fire and it makes her want to crawl out of her skin. “You just keep telling yourself that, Deano,” he says. “But you couldn’t protect him in the end. He burned, and he’s burning now.”  
  
She swallows, tries to push the image of Sam on fire out of her head, because she _knows_ that’s not what happened, she knows they found Sam in Lawrence and nobody burned there that night, and she can’t figure out why not-John and the Meg-demon keep telling this story. Dean, though, he rolls his head a little, like he’s pulling to get away, widens his eyes.  
  
“You’re lying!” he yells. “They would have found the body, we would have heard,” and she’s staring at him now, because surely Dean doesn’t believe this, he _knows_ Sam didn’t die in the fire in Lawrence, and she thinks for a second that maybe she’s gone crazy, maybe she’s been imagining Sam all this time, the way that Sam imagines the other Dean, but then Dean’s eyes land on her and flick away and she realises that he’s playing along, that he wants the demon to think Sam’s dead, and then she remembers Sam before John left, before _Sam_ left, _I’m gone, you need to remember that, they can’t read your mind_ , and she _gets_ it and lets out a sob.   
  
The not-John turns to face her in a second, flat yellow eyes looking so _wrong_ in John’s face. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he says. “Lover-boy’s all ashes now, and you’ve wasted the last year for nothing. Although I had been planning to kill you, so I guess you got the better end of the deal.” The thing – the demon, it’s the demon that killed Sam and Dean’s mother, God – looks back at Dean for a second and then smiles. “Better late than never,” it says, and raises its hand, and suddenly her body’s on fire, pain flaring under her skin, flowing through her like blood, and she can hear Dean yelling something but she can’t see, she thinks she might be screaming, and then there’s a crash and the pain stops so suddenly that if the demon wasn’t still pressing her to the wall she’d be on the floor by now. She opens her eyes, panting, and the door of the cabin’s swinging wide and Sam’s standing in the doorway, pale and manic-looking, eyes wide and rolling a little and hair stuck to his scalp with sweat.  
  
“Get… the _fuck_ away from her,” he says, and she sees the demon falter, almost fall back a step, and then smile.  
  
“Well, well, well, look who decided to join the party,” it says, and it’s distracted enough now that she can turn her head, look at Sam, look at Dean, but she’s not getting any clues from either of them, she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to _do_. The demon cocks its head on one side, like it’s considering Sam. “So, you learned a few new tricks, I see,” it says. “That could come in handy.”  
  
“F-, fuck you,” says Sam, and she sees he’s even more out of breath then she is, and he’s taking a step backwards, back out of the cabin. “You hurt them, I’ll never be your soldier.”  
  
The demon chuckles, low and sweet. “Little early in the game for that kind of negotiation, Sammy-boy,” it says. “But never let it be said that I frown on ambition.” It takes a couple of steps forward. “You’ve always been my favourite, even before you were fucked in the head.”  
  
“Come on, then,” says Sam. “Come and get me.” He’s fully outside now, nothing out there but darkness and trees and nothing to pin him against, but the demon grins.  
  
“My pleasure,” it says, and Sam flies forward suddenly, stumbles into the cabin, the door slamming behind him, and the demon takes one more step and then she feels the pressure on her chest let up a little and Sam starts to laugh.  
  
“Gotcha,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his face, and the demon raises his eyebrows. Sam looks up, and the demon follows his gaze. There’s a symbol on the ceiling in white chalk, intricate and huge, and she recognises it as the one from Bobby’s, the one they used to stop the Meg-demon from escaping. Sam’s laughing, and she can almost move, she pulls against the force that’s still pressing on her and she sees Dean doing the same, but then the demon starts laughing too, raises its eyebrows at Sam, and the ceiling cracks, the symbol splitting down the middle and plaster dust raining down on all of them, and the demon’s still laughing, God, she’s going to be dreaming of that laugh for the rest of her life, if she has any life left to live.  
  
“You didn’t think a few lines of chalk could stop someone like me, did you?” the demon asks, takes a step forward then, stops, frowning.  
  
Sam falls backwards a little fingers scrabbling for the wall like he needs something to hold him up, but he’s grinning. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”  
  
“Sam, what—" she says, and Sam glances at her, looks confused for a second, then apologetic.   
  
“Iron under the, under the floorboards,” he says. “Needed time to do it.”  
  
The demon snarls, and suddenly she’s back against the wall again, and she hears a head hit wood with a crack that’s too loud, but she doesn’t know if it’s Dean or Sam, the three of them a captive audience, now, with the demon trapped in the middle.   
  
“I can still kill you from in here,” the demon says. “But I think I’ll start with Miss America.” He turns towards her, and Sam closes his eyes and she thinks _this is it, this is the end_ , but then Sam starts speaking.   
  
“Exorcizamus t--,” he says, and then swallows like he can’t remember the next part and opens his eyes, looking over at the wall where Dean is. “God, no, stop,” he says. “Dean, no!”   
  
The demon laughs, and Sam’s attention snaps back to it. “Exorcizamus,” he says. “Exorcizamus te, om— omnis immundus— Shut _up_!”  
  
The demon grins at her. “Looks like lover boy’s losing it,” it says. “Not such a catch after all, is he?”  
  
She thinks she should be afraid, then, because this thing can apparently kill her without breaking a sweat, even from inside the iron circle that Sam’s made, but this is what ruined Sam’s life, Sam’s life and Dean’s life, John’s life and her life, and she’s done being afraid, she doesn’t care about fear any more, all she wants is for it to be _dead_. She doesn’t look away, and pain starts spreading through her body again, but not as strong as before, not as fast, and she lifts up her chin.  
  
“Exorcizamus te,” she says. “Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio—" she lets out a groan as the pain increases, God, she wants to double over, curl around herself and just _stop_ this, and she tries to force the next words past her teeth, but she can’t do it, she can’t—  
  
“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,” comes Dean’s voice from across the room, and she opens her eyes to see him staring, eyes fixed on hers, and when he sees her looking he nods. “Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” The demon whirls, and suddenly the pain lets up, she coughs twice and then Dean’s face is twisting and she forces her brain to remember where they are in the ritual.  
  
“In nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu,” she yells, _fuck you you bastard fuck you_ , and the wind’s starting to get up now, Sam’s got his hands on his temples like he’s having a vision and Dean’s eyes are tight closed, but she’s free, apparently the iron circle means the demon can’t keep them all down at once, and she’s never been so glad that she bothered to memorise something in her life. “Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.” It’s all she has time for before the demon’s turning back to face her, John’s face twisted in a rage that isn’t his, and it’s barely turned before Dean’s voice shouts above the wind, hoarse and frayed.  
  
“Non ultra audeas, serpens callidissime, decipere humanum genus, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum.” And the demon’s still staring at her, but the pain’s less, the pressure’s less, like the exorcism’s sucking away its power, and the wind’s enough to make the ends of her hair whip in her face, the lights flicker and go out, leaving everything silver and black and alien, and the demon’s not grinning any more, but she is, she’s grinning at the thing that’s caused so much hurt and she’s done being afraid. Pain twinges in her gut, but Dean’s still chanting, and it’s faded, faint, like an echo of something she’s forgotten.  
  
“Fuck you, you bastard,” she says, and joins in with Dean, hurling the last few lines out with as much force as she can, and then John’s body is on its knees, eyes spread wide, head thrown back, throat working grotesquely as greasy black smoke pours from his mouth and the smell of sulphur fills the room, so thick it makes her gag. The Colt drops from John’s hand and skitters across the floor to land at her feet, and she drops on her knees and grabs it, looks up to see the thing go back to hell, and that’s when she realises it’s not going anywhere, it’s hanging in the air, roiling and twisting like a live thing ( _and it is alive, Jesus Christ_ ) but not escaping out through the ceiling, not like when they exorcised Meg, and the wind’s still wild, so loud that she almost doesn’t hear Dean screaming Sam’s name, but then she does, and she turns.  
  
Sam’s on his knees on the floor, fingers digging into the sides of his head and blood trickling out of his nose, black in the moonlight. He’s staring at the roiling smoke, jaw set, and Dean’s crawling over to him, the wind so fierce now he can barely stand, and then Dean looks at her and yells “Shoot it, for Christ’s sake, _shoot it_.”  
  
She looks down at the gun in her hands and then up at the smoke, and it’s writhing like it’s trying to get away, but something’s keeping it there, _Sam’s_ keeping it there, God, and then she’s raising the gun for the second time that day, taking aim as carefully as she can, and she thinks this isn’t fair, this shouldn’t be her, it should be one of them, they’re the ones that have been searching for this thing their whole lives, after all.  
  
And then she remembers that if Sam had never got a phone call in the middle of the night last October, this thing would have burned her on the ceiling like she was nothing but a pawn, and she pulls the trigger.  
  
The bullet rips through the cloud like it’s something solid, and a shriek fills the room, and she feels like her senses are on overload, the taste of sulphur sour in the back of her throat and her ears ringing with the wind and the screaming and her eyes unable to cope with the mass of black and white and jumbled lines that used to be a cabin and furniture and people. Light spills out of the hole in the cloud, golden and sputtering, and then suddenly the oily smoke gets ragged, like something’s tearing it apart, streamers flapping in the wind, and as she watches, the rags shred themselves to nothing and they’re gone. They’re _gone_.  
  
The wind’s gone, too, and the howling, and there’s nothing but the lingering smell of sulphur left to let her know that any of it happened at all. She drops the gun, not because she wants to, but because her fingers won’t listen to her any more, and she’s considering collapsing on the floor when she feels a hand on her arm, and she looks round and it’s _Sam_.  
  
“Is that Dean?” Sam asks, eyes wide in the moonlight, and she looks and sees Dean crouching by his father, checking for a pulse. Sam looks over, and then his eyes flick beyond Dean to the far wall, where Dean was pinned not ten minutes ago. “Which one is Dean?” he whispers.  
  
She tries for a smile. “That one,” she says, and points at Dean, and Sam sort of crumples in on himself, crashes onto her like he can’t hold himself up any more, and she lets him come, because maybe she has more strength left than she realised.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers. “I needed it not to know I was alive.”  
  
“Because you knew how to kill it,” she says, and shifts so that Sam’s head is in her lap, using her cuff to wipe the blood from her upper lip.  
  
“I thought I – I thought I could save you,” says Sam, and there’s a tear tracing a path from the corner of his eye down into his hair, and she brushes it onto the tip of her finger and smiles.  
  
“You did save me, baby,” she says. “You saved us all.”  
  
And Sam closes his eyes like that’s all he needed to hear.  
  
\----  
  
It’s nearly dawn when she stumbles out of the door of the cabin, desperate for some air. Sam’s sleeping and John’s resting, and Dean’s just sitting in the corner looking shell-shocked, and she just needs to get away for a moment, needs to try and digest all the things that have happened tonight. The light outside is dim and grey, the air cool with morning, and she drops down on a fallen log and just breathes, trying to clear the sulphur out of her lungs. She’s been sitting there maybe five minutes when she realises she’s not alone, and she opens her eyes to see Dean watching her, but the cabin door’s still closed, and she never heard it open.  
  
“What do you want?” she asks, too tired to be scared or even angry any more.  
  
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Dean asks, and sits down on the log next to her, maybe a foot of space between them. She shifts away.  
  
“You’re not my friend,” she says. “You don’t know what a _friend_ is.”  
  
Dean – the not-Dean – thinks about that for a moment, head cocked on one side. Then he shrugs. “Well, hey, I guess nobody’s perfect.” He flashes her a grin. “But I saved your ass, so that gets me some points, right?”  
  
“We saved ourselves,” she says. “Sam’s plan. We fought. You didn’t do anything.”  
  
The not-Dean raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, cos getting your throat cut by a freakin _demon’s_ a fun time for the whole family,” he says, and she narrows her eyes at him, something jogging in her memory, _throat cut by a demon_.  
  
“You—" she says, and thinks about it some more, then, “Pastor Jim. That _was_ you.”   
  
The not-Dean grins. “See, I knew you were the smart one. Sammy wouldn’t play ball unless I made sure Jim and that Caleb dude were safe. Let me tell you, playing demon-victim twice in twenty-four hours sucks _ass_.”  
  
“Wouldn’t play ball with what?” she asks, and the not-Dean glances towards the door of the cabin.  
  
“No way to kill Azazel without a way to trap him,” he says. “Turns out, Sam wanted to change the future a little bit too much. But all’s well that ends well, right?” He looks back at her like he’s expecting her to agree. “Demon’s dead, you’re alive, John’s alive, Jim’s alive, everybody’s freakin alive. I should get a goddamn medal.”  
  
She stares, shaking her head. “What do you _want_?” she asks again, and the not-Dean raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Need to talk to Sammy,” he says. “He ain’t exactly overflowing with brotherly love for me right now, if you know what I’m saying. Figure you might be able to convince him.”  
  
A laugh bubbles up in her throat, and she lets it come, because there’s no reason not to, not any more. “Are you _serious_?” she says. “You put us all at risk for some stupid divine game of one-upmanship and you want me to _help_ you? How stupid do you think I am?” She shakes her head and doesn’t even wait to see what the not-Dean’s reaction is, doesn’t give a _damn_ about the thing any more, angel or no angel, doesn’t give a damn about _any_ of it. She’s off the log and heading for the door of the cabin when the not-Dean yells after her.  
  
“Come on, are you seriously telling me you're not going to help me?” he calls. "Whose side are you even on?"   
  
She looks back, and she can’t tell what his expression is in the pre-dawn gloom, but she doesn't care. “Theirs,” she says, nodding her head at the cabin, and then she turns and doesn’t look back.   
  
\----  
  
She’s almost at the door of the cabin when it swings wide, and Sam’s half-falling through the doorway, good hand clamped around Dean’s forearm, dragging him after. She stares for a second, and then Sam stops and grins at her, teeth the brightest thing in the little clearing.  
  
“Come on,” he says. “You’ve got to see it.”  
  
She frowns at Dean, and Dean shrugs and rolls his eyes, and then Sam’s running down the gravel road towards the highway, pulling Dean after him, and she follows, letting her stride lengthen until she’s sprinting, wind rushing against her skin and water starting at the corners of her eyes. Sam pelts down the road, barely making the corners, and then he stops at the bottom, so suddenly that Dean crashes into him and she barely manages to pull up in time to stop herself doing the same.  
  
“Sam, what—" she says, but Sam puts a finger to his lips.  
  
“Wait,” he says, and they do. There’s no noise except a few birds and the distant rumble of traffic, and the faint sound of crunching footsteps that she assumes is John coming down the road.   
  
“What are we waiting for?” says Dean after a couple of minutes, and Sam waves a hand at him.  
  
“In a minute, just, just wait a minute,” he says, and then a semi rumbles past, heading north, close enough that she falls back a step and gravel spits up against the nearby trees, and Sam tips his head back and whoops, turns to them, grin so wide she thinks his cheeks might break, and she can’t help but smile back, even though she has no idea what’s going on.  
  
“Did you see?” Sam asks, grabbing her arm. “Did you _see_?”  
  
“Sam, what are you talking about?” asks Dean, but then Sam turns to him.  
  
“Dad’s OK, right?” he says, and before Dean can answer, Sam turns and yells “ _Dad_?”   
  
“I’m right here,” comes John’s voice, and she turns to see him rounding the last corner, frowning, but not looking unhappy, just confused.   
  
“Dad’s OK,” says Sam, and he sounds awestruck. He looks at Dean, then at her, then at his father, and back to Dean. “Yeah, Dean,” he says. “It was worth it.”  
  
Dean has time to flash her a confused glance before suddenly she’s being crushed, Sam’s got his arms wrapped around her and Dean both, and she’s pressed against Sam’s chest and Dean’s side and Sam’s grinning down at her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to him and it’s everything she imagined getting Sam back would be and more, _more_ because she has more now than just _Sam_.  
  
“It was worth it,” Sam says, and she knows he’s right, maybe she didn’t get the Sam she expected, but it was worth it all the same. Sam’s been gone three hundred and six days.  
  
He’s not gone any more.


End file.
